


Fairy Dust

by Cards_Slash, orangeCrates



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 125,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangeCrates/pseuds/orangeCrates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik's life sucked and it had ever since he spit on that fairy as a child. He had to learn to live with the fact that when someone caught sight of his skin they will do anything imaginable to try to court him from serenading at his window, to giving him gifts, to over the top declarations of how his eyes sparkled like gems.  He had adjusted his dreams away from anything normal (dating someone, having a job, or even not dying of heat stroke) to more reasonable dreams like ‘not having any part of his naked skin be seen’, ‘not getting lectured by the townspeople about another newcomer getting accidentally caught up in his curse’, or ‘an inordinately cloudy, cold summer’.  </p><p>Then some thief with artistic tendencies interrupted his life with his aggravatingly reasonable objections to Malik’s complacency to the curse he was living with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It started as a joke on Tumblr.

It all began many years ago. Malik still remembered that night clearly if only because that was the day his life had been completely ruined and that just wasn’t the sort of thing you forget. It had been winter, edging towards spring, turning snow to wet slush and occasionally leaving behind large patches of mud. Malik hated that transitional phase between seasons because, inevitably, Kadar would ask to go outside and Malik, tasked with watching his little brother would have to go with him. It would not have been such torture if Kadar did not also like rolling around in the wet snow and mud. So Malik was holding a wet, muddy little brother who was happily transferring all his filth onto Malik when he returned in the evening to find that his mother had a guest in the house, feeling (understandably) irritable.

Mother had not warned him that there would a visitor that evening (or else Malik might have distracted Kadar with something cleaner). The forced calm of her expression seemed to be trying to convey to him that he should accept this unwarranted, (unexpected, unwelcome) intrusion of their home with grace. Kadar was smiling so broad that his plump cheeks must have been aching from the effort even as he wriggled and squirmed to be free of Malik’s confining grip on him. Years later (when he had the benefit of retrospective), Malik would know that he dropped Kadar face-first on the floor because he was angry about the sudden necessity to maintain the charade of enjoying uninvited company. Mother made a noise when Kadar hit the floor that bordered on reproach but didn’t quite come to fruition before Kadar was on his feet again and stomping across the floor with mud splatter everywhere with every footfall. His arms outstretched toward their guest as he shouted a wordless glee at this new, (vaguely shimmering?) person. Malik rolled his eyes and dropped to the floor to start pulling his muddy boots off.

The stranger laughed, beautiful and bell like, "Oh, what a darling thing you are!" She cooed at Kadar who, heedless of his current state of muddiness, bunched his hands in her skirt with absolutely no intention of letting go until he was picked up. It was a trick Malik was used to seeing him use and it usually worked (because even Malik had a hard time saying no to those big, blue eyes and he has had years to build up immunity). He was not sure how well it would work if Kadar got mud all over this woman's no doubt expensive dress. He could not drum up enough good-will to worry about their guest being upset, but there is a noticeably worried look in Mother's eyes that gave him pause.

“Kadar,” Mother said gently. She went over toward him even as he successfully dragged himself up to sit in the guest’s lap. Kadar was touching his fingers to this new woman’s pretty face. The spread of his short-fingers and chubby palm leaving little touches of mud on her perfect (definitely shimmering) skin. Her hand dwarfed Kadar’s as it laid across it. There were symbols (letters, perhaps) all across the skin of her wrists and the tops of her hand. Malik jumped to his feet as Mother went to gently pull Kadar away from the _thing_ that had a hold of him but Malik got there first with his fast-moving feet. He grabbed his brother by the back of his clothes and dragged him off the _thing_ ’s lap.

Kadar fussed because Malik did not have the mind to be gentle as he pulled his little brother close. Everyone knew about fairies. They were elegant and beautiful and in their presence the weak willed could only feel ugly and insignificant. They were fickle, but _powerful_ creatures known as often to bestow misfortune as they were gifts. Malik had researched them extensively later on in life, but in this moment all he knew was that it was _not_ going to touch Kadar.

“Keep your hands off him!” He snarled.

Mother’s noise of surprised horror was soft but her arms were quick to scoop Kadar up out of range of the fairy before vengeance could be enacted on him. Her hand grabbed Malik by the arm above his elbow in the very next second but it was too late. The fairy was on her feet, the sudden spread of her inconstant wings sending a wind through their small home with enough force to bowl over anything lighter than the table. She grabbed him by the shirt front even as Mother started begging her for mercy behind him. Mother’s hands were pulling at his arm but the fairy’s hand on his face immobilized him.

There were few sights (both then and now) that were as terrifying as looking right into the eyes of the fairy. Even so, Malik did not look away though he flinched when the fairy’s grip tightened, her nails digging into his skin. The lettering on her hands pulsed with a blue glow as she tutted at him, “Such an unpleasant child.” There was something eerie about the way she said the words (when he looked back on it, he would realize it was because she talked as if Malik were a misbehaving pet instead of a person). “Have you been taught no manners?”

“Please,” Mother said from some undefinable distance behind him. “It is my fault. Spare the child.”

The fairy’s smile spread to show the gleam of her teeth (Malik remembered rather distinctly wondering if she were the sort of fairy that liked to eat little boys, and after wondering it resolutely decided that if she were it would be better that she ate him than Kadar). “Is that true, boy?” she asked, “is this your Mother’s fault?” There were many things that Malik might have done in the face of such a question. (Looking back, certainly much more intelligent things he could have done, but none of them as satisfying as the way) He spit in her face. 

Oh, and Malik had been pleased by and _proud_ of the affront and anger that spread over the fairy’s face, as if she couldn’t comprehend that a lowly human would dare to do such a thing. The terror hadn’t left: it was a constant companion from the moment Malik realized what the intruder in their home was. But it seemed insignificant compared to the knowledge that the fairy was not as high and untouchable as she’d present herself to be. (It was the foolish thought of a child who, perhaps, didn’t know how terrible things could be. The worst, Malik had thought, was that she might kill him, eat him or maybe turn him into a frog. He lacked the imagination, back then, to imagine what was going to happen.)

“Please,” Mother was saying again. 

“Quiet,” the fairy shouted. The words went over Malik’s head but the breath that was used to expel ran across his face, scented like sour meat and honeysuckle flowers. The fairy looked at him a moment with her nails dug so deep into his face that blood had began to seep through the slowly-splitting skin. “I would not eat such a foul tempered little boy,” she assured him. (In all the years since that moment, Malik had never settled fully on whether or not the fairy could read his mind.) “Death is a fate much too kind for a boy of your temperament. I believe that I will give you a gift that will,” the fairy tipped her head and wrinkled her nose in a moment of indecision, “provide you with endless opportunity to improve.” Her smile was pleased as her breath rasped over her damp teeth. Behind him, Mother was speaking one last plea on his behalf but the fairy had no ears to hear it. The fairy’s next words were a spell that filled the air before his face with a cyclone of colors and fell like a sprinkle of dust. It burned when it touched his skin, it pushed into his clothes and covered every inch of his body until the whole of his skin felt as if it had been scrubbed bloody by the shimmering sand. He screamed and the fairy’s laugh echoed over top of it.

Malik hardly noticed it when the fairy let go, or when the pull of Mother’s hand dragged him back into her arms. The pain was unbearable and he wanted to tell Mother (or anyone) to just _make it stop_. But the words caught in his throat and instead came out as a harsh sob as Mother ran a hand over his hair, calling his name over and over. Then, abruptly, it was over. The cacophony of sound in the room became only the sound of Kadar’s crying and his mother’s soft pleas for him to open his eyes (when had he closed them?). The pain had fled and all he could feel was the dull throb from where he had attempted to scratch the dust off his skin. When he opened his eyes, there was still a lingering shimmer on the skin of the back of his hand, that slowly receded towards the tips of his fingers until there was no trace of it having ever been there.

“You should thank me, child.” The fairy said and Malik still found enough energy to glare at her, “I have bestowed upon you the gift of captivation.”

\--

The pounding on the door was the most polite method of waking Malik up. He did not bother to open his eyes (yet) but lifted a hand out from under the smothering thickness of the blankets and reached over to tug at the curtains that were nailed into to the wall. The sunlight was dim enough still to afford him at least ten more minutes of precious sleep. “Ten minutes?” he called at the door. The response he got was a half-realized curse and the flat of his brother’s hand slapped against the door in aggravation. Malik rolled onto his back and sighed at the tiniest sliver of light that came through a threadbare section of the curtain. They would have to be replaced lest (yet another) wandering traveller found his window and peered through it. The last one that had caught a glimpse of him through the careless gaps in his curtain had stalked their home and sat outside the window singing love songs written in badly translated Elvish. It had taken blunt force trauma and forcible relocation to get rid of the poor pest. “I should get up,” he mumbled to himself but he was rolling back into the comforting roll of the blankets instead.

Though Malik had never particularly enjoyed mornings, it wasn’t the only thing keeping him to his bed. The task of dressing had become a tedious, but necessary chore since he received the fairy’s curse (Malik would never call it a gift). He could not even walk around the house without dressing in at least two layers after an unfortunate incident when one of their neighbours had caught sight of him while asking to borrow something from Mother at the door. He sighed into his pillow and was drifting off again when there is another knock at the door, softer than Kadar’s attempts, but cutting through the haze of sleep faster because every one of Malik’s senses are trained through years of conditioning to pay immediate attention when his Mother called for it.

“Malik, come eat before your breakfast gets cold.” And this time there is no room for argument (only for curses about little brothers who played dirty.)

“Yes Mother,” he answered. He kicked the blankets off and groped for the lamp to light it. His clothes were laid out across the chair in the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. It was a self-indulgent bit of pity that left him wondering if completely disfiguring his face would solve his problem. (Past experience led him to believe it would not. He had once fallen and cut his arm open on a rock deep enough it required a doctor’s intervention and just the sight of his split open arm had caused the doctor to propose marriage to him on the spot. Malik, at ten, had no interest in the already-married fifty year old doctor.) “Fine,” he said to himself before standing up and grabbing the first of many garments. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to finish dressing and that did not count his boots, his gloves or the outer robe and cowl that he wore whenever he had to leave the house. He unlocked and yanked open his door to step out into the blinding light of the rest of the home. The smell of Mother’s delicious cooking and the sound of Kadar’s enthusiastic plans for the day drew him toward the table.

He and his brother had long since outstripped their mother in height (Malik had been shocked when he realized it, though Mother had only laughed). Malik bent obligingly to allow Mother to place a kiss on his forehead in greeting.

“Eat.” She said and gave Malik a gentle push towards his usual seat. The food on their table was made from humble, local ingredients (though there had been one suitor, a hunter who had been passing through the area, who brought them a whole wild boar that Mother had looked at, perplexed, before deciding to make stew out of it. The rest of the meat had been salted and preserved for winter), but Mother knew her way around the kitchen and when Malik had been little he had been convinced Mother must have worked her own brand of magic when she cooked.

“Today is _the_ day!” Kadar said almost before Malik had a chance to sit down. His hand slapped down on the table hard enough to jostle the dishes and earn a reproachful glare from their mother. His expression conveyed his apology but his voice was just as boisterous as he continued on, “we are going to sell everything. I can tell.”

Malik didn’t have his brother’s optimism (and he’d flatly refused to ‘take off his cowl and shirt and attract some customers’ in order to make a few extra coins). Past experiences led him to believe that no matter how much Kadar crowed to the opposite, they were going to sell almost nothing. “What’s your back-up plan? At what point do we give up trying to sell old maps and things you ‘refurbished’ from the forest and actually get a job?” This ludicrous idea had been his fault. Kadar had been sent to play with the other kids, and to school but Malik had been unhappily kept at home or sent out to the forest where nothing but animals and the occasional disinterested troll lived. He’d been the one to start bringing home the old bits and pieces to make into sculptures.

He had started doing it for want of anything else to do, back before Kadar had caught up to where Malik had been when he was left with no choice but to stop attending school and before they realized they could temporarily circumvent the effects of the gift by wrapping Malik up like a vampire going out into daylight. His attempts had been lacklustre, more of a way to keep his hands busy, but they had been masterpieces to Kadar who was still young enough that everything Malik could do that Kadar couldn’t (like going out into the forest _all by himself_ or, apparently, building ugly sculptures out of sticks and bits of broken off stone from the old, abandoned structures in the forest) was amazing. He was also young enough that he wanted to emulate the things his big brother did.

Malik eventually lost interest. Kadar did not.

“You wound me,” his brother said with one of his hands pressed to his chest. “I will give up my hopeless artistic dream the first day we get no buyers. The first day it is not raining and we get no buyers.” Then he tapped his hand on the table again (jostled the dishes and got slapped on the back of the head by their Mother) and nodded his head. “It’s settled. Stop frowning.”

“I’m not frowning,” Malik said. But he would be. Kadar could talk to everyone that visited their mobile shop and flirt with whoever he wanted. Kadar could roll up his sleeves when the weather was hot or just pour water over his head. Malik was stuck as far from view as possible, sweating to death beneath his clothes in any weather but deep winter, bored out of his mind for lack of anyone willing to talk to a guy who couldn’t show his face. “I hope this is that day then. It’s better to give up hopeless dreams early.”

“It won’t be,” Kadar said with a confidence whose origin Malik is uncertain of, “You’ll see, Malik. Today will be different. I just know it.” Malik only snorted and went back to his breakfast which was, by far, much preferable to the conversation at hand. He had said his piece and Kadar would listen or he would not (stubbornness, Mother had noted once, seems to be a family trait).

Though if Malik had known before hand that Kadar would be right about the day being different (even if it is not in the way he had hoped), he might have chosen to stay at home regardless of how mind-numbingly boring it was.

\--

Malik sat on a barrel in the back corner of their cart. It was not comfortable. The closed-in-suffocation of the cart itself was not comfortable. There was an opening in the side that allowed him to see the table that Kadar dragged out (every day) to set up his various trinkets on. Malik could see the unenthused crowd that came and went around them. Women (who Kadar excelled at selling to) paused now and again when an especially pretty bit of broken glass set just right into an ugly sculpture caught their eye. Mostly, people stopped only to listen to Kadar’s talking and made polite but insistent refusals to buy. Malik leaned his head against the wall of the cart and watched his brother kick the dirt and speak to someone off to the side he could not see. With his back turned, Kadar didn’t see the man that snuck up and pulled two of the ‘pieces’ (as Kadar referred to them) off the table. He snorted to himself and tipped his head back into the shadowed corner. 

That was about as close to ‘selling’ as they seemed to be able to get for the day.

Malik had learnt, the hard way, to avoid getting involved with thieves when he had confronted one, only to nearly be kidnapped when the thief decided Malik was a treasure more worth stealing than whatever it is she had been there for. Besides, there had been no money spent on the materials, so there was no real loss except that measured in the time Kadar wasted making the stupid things. It would serve as a harmless but important lesson on being vigilant and aware of his surroundings for his brother. The guilt still ate at him (because it is his responsibility to watch over Kadar), but before he could decide whether Kadar’s so-called art was worth leaving the dubious safety of their cart, Kadar turned around with a call of, “Hey!” 

Presumably, because whoever he was speaking to had seen what was happening because Malik can’t imagine Kadar would have noticed on his own.

The cart jostled as Kadar’s body hit it in his haste to run after the thief. The sound of their footsteps retreated far enough to mark the utter abandonment of the so-called ‘valuable art’ which mean Malik was obliged to join the chase or go sit out next to the table and watch the people pass him by. He chose the latter rather than the former. The day was warm-and-sticky, he wasn’t interested in making the lake of sweat already soaked into the underlayer of his clothing any deeper. He sat on the stool by the of goods, watching the people pass by from under the shadowed overhang of his cowl. 

The passing of time was marked in the rotation of shadows on the ground and the disinterested trod of the villagers taking no note of the _fine art_ he had to sell. The only curious thing to happen in all the time Kadar was gone (chasing a thief for a worthless bit of recycled trash) was when the thief (himself!) circled back around to the table. He was immediately recognizable by the scar across his lip and the careless sway of his walk as he came right back up to the table and set down both of the small statues he had stolen. They were altered (noticeably) from the original design. The thief looked at him with a squint of confusion over the dramatic layering of Malik’s clothes (this meant the man was not a local) and then smiled. 

“They might actually sell now,” he said with a wink. Then he continued on his way.

The encounter was short, practically over as soon as it began, but, brief as it was, it was _bizarre_. For one, people in their right mind do not make a habit of winking at Malik. After the first few years of his being cursed, the locals went out of their way to avoid looking at him at all except for the occasional youth who wanted to prove their bravery or stupidity (Malik has never bothered to decide which it was) by trying to see under Malik’s cowl when he went to the market. As for travelers...who would even wink at a man whose face they cannot see?

It only took Malik a second to come to the conclusion this thief must be touched in the head. Who else would steal Kadar’s works of ‘art’, only to modify and bring them back? The more important question then was…

“Where is my brother?” Malik stood from the stool, because he and Kadar had grown up in this area, even if this man could run faster, there is no way he could have gotten away long enough to modify the statues then come back. Not when they know all the shortcuts in this place, “What did you do to him?”

In the small span of time it had taken for him to stand up and shout, the stranger had disappeared. There was a small crowd of men loitering in the open space of the market and a patch of trees that covered a path out to the fields. Malik could have made a guess as to where the stranger went but it would have been as big a waste of time as having to go search for Kadar. He turned back to glare at the table and the tedious job of having to pack it all up (all without having made a single coin). His grumbling was interrupted by the arrival of Jenna (a frequent chatter but never a buyer) who let out the softest gasp of noise.

“Oh,” she said as she picked up and cradled one of the thief’s made-over pieces. “This is pretty.” It had been remade from an odd collection of glass bits strung on thin wires to a purposeful arrangement of parts. She held it up so the sun ran through it and said, “look at it.” She pointed at the spray of flowers on the table made by the light passing through the glass. “I’ll take it,” she said. “How much? Hold it and I’ll go home and get my purse. Don’t let anyone take it.” Then she thrust it into his hand and turned with haste to run back toward her home. 

Malik’s hand closes around the piece out of instinct, and for a moment he could only stare mutely at Jenna’s back. Then he stared down at what was in his hands. He hadn’t paid too much attention to what the thief had brought back, but now that he got a good look at it, he had to admit that whatever he had done had, indeed, improved upon Kadar’s own attempts. Malik turned it this way then that and he knew neither he nor Kadar would have thought to make these changes (neither of them were artists which makes Kadar’s insistence that much more incomprehensible).

As he held the thing (that he might, if only grudgingly, call art) up to the light, a voice interrupted him, “Is that for sale?” Malik’s head ducked down immediately, only relaxing when George, the town baker only stared at what he was holding instead of staring at him. He pulled the edge of the cowl down, just to be sure it had not slipped.

“No. Someone is coming back for it.”

“Oh, that’s a pity.”

Malik’s eyes drifted briefly over to the other remade piece and thought, surely this had to be a fluke. But he cleared his throat and says, “What about this one?” Painfully aware that he was not as practised as Kadar at this.

George appraised the table of trash with great reluctance and accepted the second piece the thief had returned begrudgingly. “Well, it’s just not as pretty as that other one, is it? My wife would prefer that one.” He held it up as he turned it and the light caught the center of the new sculpture and shattered the single beam into many separate lights that spread out through the hanging bits of glass to spread a rainbow of color outward. George’s face was full of pure delight as he held his hand up to catch a handful of color and the sound he made was so purely _pleased_ it was almost childlike. “Alright,” he said with a gruff cough. “This isn’t bad.”

Malik might have been able to offer a better answer than the dumb stare he was currently managing from under the safety of the cowl. It was _confounding_ to think that some quick-footed thief had transformed months (and months, and possibly years before that) of Kadar’s hard-work into something actually _sellable_ in only a matter of minutes. It took him an embarrassing length of time to realize that he’d never answered George before he stammered out, “it isn’t bad.” The awe in his voice was the worst possible tone for bargaining. At the moment, he was too distracted to care. “It isn’t bad,” he repeated as he looked at the one in his hand again. 

That was why he missed the shrewd look George cast him. “Look, boy.” He said in the conspiratorial tone of a someone who probably would have tried to sling his arm over Malik’s shoulder and lean in close if his son hadn’t nearly broken off his engagement in an attempt to marry Malik at one point after nearly running him over. Anyone who has lived in this town for more than a month knew better than to get too close. “I don’t know how much they’re paying you, but I’ll make you a better deal if you sell me both.”

Malik is still reeling from the fact that people actually _wanted_ to pay money for what are essentially statues made from _junk_. He can’t even wrap his mind around the fact that this man wanted to pay extra to snatch the thing in his hand away from someone else.

George said, “What do you say?” at the same time Jenna came jogging down the path. She took one look at the scene and frowned.

“I’ve brought the money.” She said very pointedly and she opened her purse without acknowledging that anyone else was here. “How much did you say it was?”

The truth was that Malik had not said how much it was. Kadar named the prices depending on the level of interest in the item. Usually that amounted to giving away the stupid things and offering to come fix a broken fence. He groped around inside of his head for any price that seemed reasonable. “Five?” he said. 

Five coins was enough to buy a piglet and a piglet could grow up and be eaten. A pig could be bred. A pig was a fine investment that made sense. Five coins could buy enough fabric to make half a wardrobe (for a normal person that wasn’t burdened with so many layers). Five coins was far too much to ask for some broken glass and bent wire. Yet, the way Jenna’s face lit up in relief made him believe that he’d named a price far too low. She was so eager to accept his price that she did not haggle for a better one but dump five coins into his gloved hand and take her purchase. “Thank you!” Jenna said. 

George looked distinctly annoyed the way anyone who had just missed out on a good deal would be. He shook his head with a sigh and asked, “how much for this one, then?”

Malik is aware that he could name a higher price and he would probably get it. George may kick up a bit of a fuss if it is too high (and maybe even if it’s not), but he could certainly do better than five coins.

“Five.” He said, because it is only fair when that is what he had charged Jenna (and because he has known these people since he was a child and for all the problems he has caused many of them have never truly blamed him for it).

He looked surprised, but then he laughed. He handed Malik the coins then said, “You can do better than that, Malik.” He reached out with a hand as if to clap Malik’s shoulder, then thought better of it, “You’re a good kid. Say hello to your mother for me.”

“I will,” Malik promised. He spent a moment appreciating the unique feel of ten coins in his hand at the same time and then turned half around to where Kadar usually stood to shout encouraging things to people who didn’t want to buy. It was embarrassing (shameful, even) that he’d forgotten his brother was missing. “Oh,” he said the empty space and then stooped down to grab the box that all of the precious crap went into. He was not careful or kind about throwing it all back into it’s box. When he was finished, he threw the box into the cart and dragged the table over to throw it in too. Having managed all that, he closed and locked the cart and went in the direction that Kadar had run off to find where his brother had disappeared to.

In his imagination, he expected to find Kadar chatting with a pretty woman or maybe humorously guilted into assisting one of the widows that lived in the big house in the center of town. The widows were very fond of Kadar for his likeable face and (as they put it) amazing backside. He spoke to Alayna at the widow’s house about his brother and was told he had not come that way. Malik thanked her and went back to the muddy road in the center of the village to turn a circle and search for any sort of clue. (A woman, for instance, raging about what sort of scoundrel his brother was.) He managed almost a complete turn before he stopped short at the sight of the smirking thief leaning against a building. It was an outbuilding of one of the shops, the sort of place with a locking door that might trap someone stupid enough to go into it. Malik did not even have to take one footstep toward the thief to know (for absolute sure) that his stupid brother had been gone all this time because he was locked in the breadmaker’s outbuilding.

The more complicated problem to work out was how he should approach the thief. On one hand, there were the ten coins they would not have made today without the thief’s unsolicited assistance. On the other hand, instead of asking or offering to help he had chosen to steal away with two of Kadar’s pieces, lock his brother in a building, change them and then return to the scene of the crime with irritating self-assurance that his work was not only better but wanted.

That it was true, Malik would not argue.

That the thief was an _ass_ who chose the showiest way to demonstrate this skill was also very likely true.

Malik was still trying to decide whether to insult or thank the thief when the decision was made for him.

“How much did they sell for?” The thief asked. Not ‘did they sell’ but ‘for how much’. Malik was tempted to tell him they did not sell at all, but honesty won out in the end.

“Ten coins.”

“For each?” The thief looked incredulous, as if he had expected more.

And Malik’s smile was simply _mean_ when he said, “For both together.”

The thief made a noise like a shout with his whole body jerking in disbelief that his hard (brief) work had been so disastrously devalued. Then he scoffed and said, “well give me half. I clearly underestimated this one’s,” he motioned his hand back at the building he was standing in front of, “importance to the operation. Do you know he thinks he’s an artist?”

Kadar made a noise that was indecipherable from the interior of the building. But the way he banged harshly on the door in protest was clear enough.

On the one hand, giving the artist half the money bordered on fair. On the other hand, he was a jerk that was holding Malik’s brother hostage. He countered with, “three coins.” It seemed equally as fair when one considered that all of the raw materials were provided by them as was the cart where they sold. 

The thief crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the building. He tipped his face as if he were trying to hear something from inside of it. “Three coins is an insult. What are you willing to offer?”

Kadar must have answered because the thief nodded and then turned around to open the locks on the door. He walked away from it before Kadar could fall out of the door (he must have been leaning against) so he was grabbing the coins that Malik held out with one hand and saying, “nice doing business with you,” even as Kadar landed face-first in the dirt with a groan.

Malik did not nod because, unless the meaning of the word had changed, there had been nothing ‘nice’ about any of it and because it is safest to avoid motions that involved tipping his head up. In fact, he was more than happy to simply ignore the thief as he left. (No, Malik would have been happier to glare at him but there is little point in doing that when no one can see his face.) Instead he gave Kadar a quick once over. He was rubbing at his nose and cursing under his breath, but looked unharmed. Whatever worry he had carried with him dissipated, leaving behind only exasperation when he said, “you’re an idiot.” followed by, “what did you promise him?”

“Ten coins?” Kadar asked rather than answer the question. He was beating the front of his clothes in an attempt to get rid of the dust (and flour). The sweat on his face had caked with the dirt to make mud and the filth clung to him while he smiled and nodded. “You said we wouldn’t make anything today.”

“ _We_ didn’t,” Malik assured him. “What did you promise the thief?”

Kadar grimaced as his hands dropped to his side (a sure sign of guilt) and then said, “I promised that he could be our artist? I’ll still do all the selling!” At that point, Malik turned to walk away. “And you can collect all the raw materials! Malik it’s perfect, it’s the solution to our problems! Malik.” He was jogging at Malik’s side, all pink with heat and happiness about this good fortune that had visited them. “Don’t be angry, Malik. I can’t see your face but I can tell you’re angry. This is good! This _is_ good.”

Kadar could barely remember a time before the fairy’s curse. He had simply been too _young_. As far as he remembered, the only times he had seen Malik’s face uncovered was when they played in the forest, before Malik started wearing the cowl everywhere he went even where you wouldn’t expect to find people normally (just in case). Kadar has had years to practice reading the set of Malik’s shoulder, the way he held his hands and the way he walked to gauge the mood. He could do it as easily as (and with more precision than) when they were children catching frogs in the forest.

That’s why, even though Malik did not whirl around and scowl at him, he could tell that’s what Malik might have done if they were back in the house.

“He’s an ass.” He hissed, angry enough that Kadar almost expects his footsteps to leave trails of fire and soot.

“He also helped us earn ten coins.” He reached out to grab Malik by the elbow, knowing the best way to convince his brother was to appeal to his pragmatism, “it’s the most we’ve ever earned at once.” Apart from those times when Malik got a particularly expensive gift from a suitor. They both know this already just as they both know it couldn’t be counted as steady income.

“You already said he could work with us. It’s too late to change it now,” Malik said. There was no point in arguing something that was already done. “When exactly is he supposed to start working with us?”

Kadar shouted in achievement at securing even the most flatly disinterested approval. He slapped Malik on the back. “Tomorrow,” he said. “He’s supposed to meet us at our cart. He’s not so bad.”

“He locked you in an outbuilding,” Malik said.

“He’s not even the first to do that,” Kadar said with a wave of his hand to dismiss the notion. “I can’t wait to tell Mother.” Then he motioned for the money that Malik was still carrying and stuck out his lower lip when Malik made no motion to give it to him. “Fine, you hold it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so proud to introduce chicken guy.

The day had been especially warm and sunny that day which just seemed unfair and more than a little ominous to Malik. It felt like the world was reassuring him that, indeed, today will not be a good day. That, in addition to having to deal with that arrogant thief, he would have to do it while being sweaty, hot and miserable. He was tempted to not go to the cart at all. Let Kadar deal with the thief since he was the one who invited him to work with them in the first place.

In the end, though, he still got dressed and left the house with his brother. Kadar was, without a doubt, the better salesman between the two of them, but he had this unfortunate tendency to be distracted by a pretty girl. It was one thing for him to try to give away their wares when they were worth nothing, it is another matter entirely if they could actually turn a profit selling these things.

Malik was already sweating beneath his clothes before they even made it to the cart to set up. He could already imagine how the rest of the day was going to turn out as he tuned out Kadar’s excited chatter.

Kadar shouted, “hey!” at the man sitting on the top of their cart. He jogged the remaining distance to the cart with a cheery hand raised in greeting. “You never told us your name.” He stopped a few feet in front of the cart with his hands on his hips and his mouth gaping open in easy adoration. 

Malik wasn’t close enough to see the expression on the thief’s face clearly but he could see the jaunty swing of his stupid feet and hear him when he said, “Altair.”

“Kadar,” his brother said. Then pointed at him. “Malik.” For a moment it seemed like that would be the end of it but he clapped his hands together. “Don’t look at Malik.” Then he nodded as if that warning was good enough for anyone. 

Altair lifted himself up and over the edge of cart to drop to the ground. Almost immediately he turned to look at Malik. He couldn’t have seen anything of him except the (now damp) layers of his clothing. He squinted at him and then shrugged. 

“There’s not much to look at.” Was all he said and while the way he said it made Malik frown, he was also relieved.

The benefit of having lived in this place his entire life is that, at some point or another, everyone in their village has either fallen for him or known someone who did. No one could doubt the curse was real once two fully grown men (both perfectly sensible, sane people, one of whom was married) decided to have a duel to the death (that was thankfully interrupted) over who would have the honour of marrying a thirteen year old Malik who just threw his hands up and stomped off.

Outsiders were the problem, because the few times Malik had tried to explain when he was younger, they had treated it as a joke or, worse yet, asked him to _prove_ it (and what kind of idiot even asked that, really?).

It was for the best that Altair was dismissive as they got to work setting up the table for business. A feat that took more time than usual despite the extra pair of hands because Kadar and Altair were looking through the pieces they had and discussing what should be done about them first.

Malik’s patience was thin even before Altair put an arm around his brother and explained to him with all the condescending friendliness in the world that _arrangement_ is the key to success when making art out of trash. Altair offered little drops of almost compliments like, “you were close with this--whatever you were making here, you had the colors in the right groups” but Altair was just as quick to point out that, “I can probably make it sellable.” Long before the sun’s ascent reached the boiling point for the day, Malik was simply finished with the stupidity of the men standing outside the cart. Instead of listening to the discussion any longer (which would have ended with Malik puking on one of them possibly) he retreated to the dusty interior of the cart where the shade provided at least the smallest of relief from the heat.

Outside, the drone of Altair’s growing arrogance and the unfortunate lilt of Kadar’s even-faster-grown admiration continued on. 

There was no escaping it anymore than he can escape the heat it seemed. He sighed and pulled out the waterskin Mother insisted he carry with him whenever the weather turned warm. Heatstroke was, unfortunately, a very real danger with all the layers Malik wore. He uncorked it then looked out to make sure no one was looking into the cart (only to find Altair actually working, if with deliberate slowness as he explained his process to Kadar). Satisfied he wouldn’t be seen, he tipped the waterskin back and drank from it. The water was cool and, though it did nothing to change the fact that Malik was sticky with sweat, it settled in his stomach pleasantly and helped to dissipate the heat. No doubt it will be at least lukewarm in no time in this heat, for now though, it was a blessing.

Outside, he saw a crowd beginning to gather to watch Altair work and it is enough to tear Kadar from his side to address them.

“Yes,” Kadar was saying (obnoxiously loud). “We have employed a new artist--a _master_ artisan. He is already hard at work transforming our inventory. You are welcome to stay to watch him work or to check back later to see what new pieces we have to sell.” 

Malik rolled his eyes while Kadar talked up their new thief-artist to make him sound better-than-he-was. It stopped short at outright lies. The sound of the footsteps and incidental voices drifting through the opening the cart led him to believe a decent crowd had amassed. Malik didn’t need to see them (he rarely did) so he dragged the rolled up sacks in the corner out to make a pillow on the dirty floor of the cart before he laid down. The heat was too great to nap but lying was more comfortable than sitting on the stool. Once he was lying he could hear the bumps and thumps where Altair (stationed up against the side of their cart) hit his elbow against the wood while he worked. 

The day dragged on with the repetitive monotony of Kadar’s selling tactics and Altair’s constant arrogance. It was early afternoon (nearly time for lunch) before Silas stopped by the cart with a telltale snort and hacking cough to say, “hey, aren’t you the man that tried to steal my chickens?”

“Probably not,” Altair said. “Did you catch that guy?”

In all the years Malik has been buying eggs from the man, he had known Silas as the suspicious sort who always took the money Malik (or anyone, really) paid him with and squinted at each coin to make sure it wasn’t fake. Malik has taken to leaving earlier than was necessary whenever he went to buy anything from him.

“No.” Malik hears the way Silas dragged out the word and knows, without a doubt, that he was looking at Altair with that suspicious squint of his. Malik closed his eyes and wondered if it might be better to let Kadar handle it as Silas continued, “funny, you look an awful lot like him. Same height and shoulders and all that.”

Malik’s opinion of Altair was certainly low enough that he wanted to believe he was capable of something as petty as stealing chickens. But if he were to be honest he couldn’t imagine why Altair would be stealing chickens (funny as the image was) except out of spite and surely he hadn’t been in town long enough to have formed any real dislike of anyone living here.

He listened carefully without moving and he heard Kadar trying to sell something and realized with a groan that Altair had just told Silas that he had better things to do than stealing the man’s chickens. The one other thing Malik knew about Silas besides the fact that he was suspicious of everyone was that he was very proud of his chickens. At this point, someone might have to do damage control and, unfortunately, it looked like he was the only one available.

He sat up and adjusted his cowl, thinking uncharitably that their new artist might be more trouble than he was worth. 

As predicted, Silas was turning the very same shade of red he had turned when one of Malik’s more intrepid suitors had been caught rampaging through his chicken’s well-maintained yard. Most of the time, the villagers laughed off the unfortunate antics of Malik’s cursed suitors but Silas had been set on taking the matter to court after his prized hen (Carlotta) had stopped laying eggs due to ‘excessive trauma’. Silas had been convinced to drop the charges but he was still known to mention to anyone that would listen how poor Carlotta hadn’t laid an egg since.

“What’s the deal with this new smartass, huh?” Silas demanded when he saw Malik. “Seems like you’ve caused me enough trouble! I don’t want to find out that this man is going after my chickens because he’s gotten it in your head you need omelets!”

To be fair, in an effort to get rid of the pest that had caught a glimpse of the back of Malik’s wrist, he had sent the man to make him an omelet. Malik looked over at Altair (unrepentantly grinning at his art) and cleared his throat. “I think you must have the wrong man. I saw a man that looked like this one,” he jerked his thumb back at Altair without looking at him, “picking the locks down by the blacksmith the other day. That’s the kind of man I’d say would try to take your chickens. Not this one.” He shifted his weight so he could say confidentially (but not quietly), “Altair’s not very smart.” (Malik wasn’t sure how intelligence was a requirement to know how to steal a chicken but Silas was nodding along with him, perhaps just pleased at the insult.) “Would you like to take something home for Carlotta?”

Malik couldn’t imagine what a chicken was going to do with any of what they sold here, but Silas was always eager to spoil ‘his girls’ as he fondly called them, occasionally confusing travellers into thinking he had multiple daughters (a man had even offered to marry one before he was told that Charlotte, whom Silas was singing the praises of, was not, in fact, a brunette with soft, downy hair).

So he wasn’t surprised when Silas nodded amicably.

“Kadar!” He gestured for his brother and, when he was sure Silas wouldn’t see, made a motion that Kadar correctly interpreted as a signal to drag Silas over to find something that would be just _perfect_ for dear, sweet Carlotta.

Malik would have gladly retreated back into the cart after that except Altair interrupted his attempts at escape by asking, “did you get your omelets in the end?” He was completely unfazed when Malik turned around to glare at him, still idly rolling a piece of glass between his knuckles as easily as if it were a coin, “it seems like a lot of trouble to go stealing from him. I just want to know if it was worth it.”

“No,” Malik said. In fact that man that had tried stealing from SIlas had been locked into a spare room at the inn for a week. Over the years, the locals had simply dedicated that room to the purpose of separating Malik from his more insistent suitors and even took turns sitting outside the door talking to the sobbing fool begging for a chance to woo his ‘one true love’. “There’s plenty of food in town, you don’t need to steal it.”

Altair’s answer was a quiet, dismissive noise and the barely-heard, “unless you have no money,” before he was getting up off the stool Kadar had given him to carry his latest creation over to the table of good for sale. 

\--

Despite what Malik thought at the start of it, the day turned out to be profitable and there were no more incidents after Silas left with a piece that will, apparently, ‘cheer Carlotta right up’.  
For the first time since they started this, they’d actually made a real dent in their inventory and he realized he’d have to go looking for new materials much sooner than he expected. The thought seemed as unreal as the bag (because the contents will not fit in anyone’s pockets) of coins sitting on the table.

Kadar was over the moon at how things turned out and he was babbling to Malik about how he’d barely had to try to convince people to buy _anything_ and how two customers (not just dawdlers, but actual, _paying_ customers) had actually argued over one piece. It put even Malik in a good enough mood (along with the lower temperature of early evening), that Altair’s smug and pleased smirk was only mildly annoying.

Good humor (or unusual success) must have loosened something in Malik’s head because he was saying, “Mother will want to meet the man responsible for your good fortune.” The very words were so out of character for him that Kadar actually turned to stare at him with his mouth hanging open as he grasped for anything to answer such a statement.

“So soon?” Altair said. “Usually, I’ve at least seen someone’s face before they invite me to meet their Mother.” The man couldn’t see it but Malik was frowning at him. 

“You’ve seen Kadar’s face,” Malik said flatly.

“She would love to see you!” Kadar interrupted. He had recovered enough to sell the idea to Altair (even if he was still side-eying Malik with confusion). “And there is food. You are very thin. What good will you be to us if you keel over from hunger? Our Mother is very nice.” Yes, Mother was very nice unless she thought you were yet-another-suitor at her door begging for the right to marry. Then she was as mean-spirited and short-tempered as her big-black-frying pan.

That was the reason why one of them (Kadar, because it is unadvisable for Malik to run in case his cowl came off, or worse, if he accidentally bumped into someone), ran ahead to tell their mother that Altair was not a suitor and to help set an extra spot at the table.

That left Malik and Altair to make their way to the home at a more sedate pace.

“Why do you dress like that?” Altair wasn’t asking out of care. It was curiosity that motivated him and the knowledge that Malik’s mood was obviously reflected by the weather. He had been at his worst and most snappish at the hottest time of day and could almost be called pleasant (for a given value of the word) now. It did not matter what Malik chose to endure and why, but it would make his life easier without someone snapping at him all the time.

There was no telling what Malik thought of the question with his face so completely hidden by the cowl like it was. The sound he made as an exasperated sigh, a flow of air across his narrowly opened lips. Then he added, “I’m cursed. If anyone looks at me they love me.”

Altair laughed like it had been punched out of his chest. He had expected disfigurement by accident or birth defect. He would have accepted some self-proclaimed ‘beauty’ that had to be protected. (Altair had never seen a person, magical-or-otherwise, that had actually been so beautiful it drove people insane. But he’d met a few that thought they qualified.) Malik’s head had turned toward him, the dip of the cowl seemed to indicate he was glaring again but there was no way to be sure. “I don’t believe you,” Altair said.

Malik just sighed. “That’s what they all say.” He did not try to defend his curse’s existence but kept walking steadily toward his house.

They lived closer to the outskirts of town because that was what Mother could afford back then. That it was away from the town centre where there were fewer residents and less foot traffic was a boon after Malik was cursed but even before that Malik had liked the location and how quiet it was. The windows of their home were all covered by curtains out of necessity (though Malik remembered when he was a child that Mother liked leaving them open on summer nights like this to let in the evening air and the lazy music of cicadas), but the candle light still filtered through it and he could make out silhouettes moving inside.

Someone must have seen them coming up the path, because Mother was opening the door before they were even close enough to touch the door. The smell of dinner drifted out and, after a long day of suffering in the heat, it made Malik’s mouth water.

“Welcome back.” She said and, when Malik was close enough, reached out to touch his elbow in greeting. Then she turned to look beyond his shoulder, her smile warm and grateful, “And you must be Altair. Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you,” Altair said. He didn’t move forward immediately to enter their home despite the outstretched arm that Mother offered him. He hovered just beyond the threshold with his hands pressed against the dusty sides of his clothes and an odd look of indecisive embarrassment on his face. It lingered only a brief pause before it was gone and his face was neutral (and arrogant again). He nodded as he followed after Malik into their small home. The sound of Altair’s stomach rolling in hunger was audible enough to anyone standing within arm’s distance of him but the mask of emotionless observance seemed to be an attempt to deny it. “Nice house,” he said dryly.

“Thanks,” Kadar answered for everyone. He was dragging the fourth chair across the floor toward their table. It had become a sort of universal junk collector over the years. It was often seen propped in the corner overladen with a pile of things that had no true place. The pile had been displaced to the floor and the chair had been hurriedly wiped to make it nice enough to sit on. “It’s home.” Then he smiled and motioned at the seat. 

Altair nodded and looked down at his hands again. “Do you--Is there somewhere I should wash my hands?”

Mother pointed down the hall, “the bathroom is that way. It will be the first door on your left.”

There is a perfectly functional place for handwashing in the kitchen. Malik was aware as Altair nodded again and left that there was something Mother meant to say that she felt he doesn’t need to hear.

Once the door closes, she clicked her tongue, “You should have told me earlier that we were having a guest. I would have made more food.” Malik busied himself with washing his own hands in the kitchen. Neither of them told her that it was a last minute decision to avoid their Mother’s disapproval. (Malik felt, somehow, that she knew anyway. They had never been able to hide anything from her.)

It was instantly clear to them both that in addition to gratitude she was now also feeling concern, something Malik hadn’t entirely expected. Altair had been nothing but insufferable and, occasionally, barely tolerable since they met. He expected dinner to be full of strained politeness at best and for them to send Altair on his way at the end of it.

As he dried his hands on a piece of cloth, he mused that despite the pretense of arrogance and aloofness, Altair acted nothing like he had in front of the brothers.

When Altair returned to Kadar singing his praises to Mother, he was the only one surprised that his plate was heaped with twice the amount of food everyone else was given.

Mother prompted Altair to tell her ‘everything about himself’ and Kadar had looked up from staring jealously at his own plate to agree with her, “yeah, where are you from?”

Habit had put Mother and Kadar on opposite sides of the table. The unfortunate effect the arrangement had was leaving Malik able to watch every uncomfortable twitch of Altair’s face at their invitations to talk about himself. Altair’s arrogance fit unevenly over his face as he pushed the food around his plate in between the too-small-bites of it he took now and again. “I’ve moved around a lot,” is what Altair finally said. “I don’t like to be trapped anywhere when there is a lot of the world left to see.”

Maybe Altair meant that to be a quick excuse to leave as soon as he was finished nibbling his way through dinner but it was almost certainly having the opposite effect. Kadar (who never bothered to worry about much in life that was not food or pretty girls) was looking at Altair as if it had only just occurred to him that his clothes were filthy and his face was thin. (To be fair, Malik had not taken the time to notice it before either.) Mother did not stare at him so openly but she did take note of it in other ways, lingering at the holes in Altair’s sleeves or the dirt caught under his fingernails even after he had washed them. “Well, while you are working with the boys you are welcome to sleep here. We do not have much room but we could make a little for the man that finally made something Kadar can sell.”

“Hey,” Kadar was quick to say. But he did not protest any further. 

The only person who really looked like he wanted to protest was _Altair_ , who looked so entirely taken aback, as if he hadn’t expected such an offer (as if the very idea of anyone offering such a small kindness was entirely foreign to him). It made Malik pause with his fork poised halfway to his mouth and stare from under his cowl.

For all the troubles they had been through, Malik and his brother had never lived a day without a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. The roof may have occasionally leaked or needed fixing, and sometimes there was less food, but they were _there_ , and he was acutely aware of this fact when Altair turned to look at him as if he expected Malik to say something.

So he did.

He placed his fork back down and said, “he can take Kadar’s room. We can share for the time being.” He says it simply, because he had the feeling that Altair could not be made to accept the offer himself (pride, perhaps), “it will be more convenient to have you close by where we can find you.” The cowl afforded him the chance to watch Altair without being noticed as he presented the offer in a way he hoped would be well received.

Either Altair sensed it was pointless to protest or he had plans to steal everything in the house while they slept because he nodded his head. “Thank you.” Then he went back to eating food in tiny forkfuls and offering empty-answers to real questions.

“Kadar,” Malik said. “How much money did we make?”

Kadar was happy to discuss money (at all times) but even more pleased when he got to talk about how he had picked an outlandish price to sell Altair’s art for and that people were not only _paying_ them (fifteen coins for one especially intricate pieces, ten for the simple ones) but that they were paying such prices happily. He tried to explain to Mother how the light went through the bits of glass and rock and made shapes on whatever surface it touched. His excitement was a pleasant cover for Altair’s quiet.

It did not hide the fact that all through the meal, Altair barely touched his food or that, by the end of it, most of it was still on the plate (even if he made an attempt to hide it by moving the food around the plate). Mother did not frown or say anything about it which, given how she has stressed the importance of not wasting food their entire lives, could only mean she had noticed and chosen not to comment.

Altair was automatically excused from having to help clean up because he was the guest. Kadar left with him to show him where he will be sleeping, gather what he needs and set himself up in Malik’s room. That left Malik to help Mother with the dishes. The food Altair did not finish was put away, and Malik remembered the idea he’d had the previous day, of investing in a pig. They had enough land to put together a pen. They could have used the uneaten food as slop, maybe.

He lifted his head to voice his idea but stopped at the expression on Mother’s face as she dried the dishes.

Mother (who was ever-fearless) reached up with two fingers to pluck at the cowl and toss it backward away from his face. The sudden surge of light (and increase in sound really) was disorienting for a brief second even as he grabbed it with his hand. “Mom,” he hissed at her.

“Your brother will not be done showing him around his bedroom for a while. You know this as well as I do.” Then she put one hand on her hip and cocked up an eyebrow in the universal way that demanded he explain himself and this situation. 

“There was no way to know that he was starving as well as arrogant, remorseless and potentially a common criminal,” Malik said. The truth was that Malik simply didn’t care enough to look for anything beyond Altair’s smug surface. If he took the time to think about, he might have wondered if that was some sort of defense against well-meaning people like his Mother. “He does steal.”

“Convince him to stay until he has money to afford a room of his own,” Mother said. There was simply no arguing that point with her. 

“Kadar is better at--”

“This is not something that your brother can sell,” Mother interrupted. Then she turned her attention back to the dishes and ignored him while he fixed the cowl. “Make sure you do it away from your brother. He means well but he is indelicate.” 

Malik might have pointed out that he had never been particularly kind or considerate when he dealt with his suitors, but those were special circumstances. That he hardly ever spoke to people unless absolutely necessary was also unlikely to be accepted as a valid excuse. (There was also the fact that his Mother trusted him with this and some part of him did not want to disappoint her.)

So all he does in the end is let out a quiet sigh, and simply acquiesces, “Yes, Mother.”


	3. Chapter 3

The problem with sharing a room was that Kadar snored, quite loudly in fact (though he denied it no matter who told him). It was fine as long as Malik was deeply asleep before the snoring began which he had managed the night previous.

Unfortunately, when he unexpectedly started awake far earlier than he wanted to, there was no chance of going back to sleep. He imagined, for a moment, simply turning over and smothering his brother with his pillow. Instead, he simply got up, accepting his miserable fate. 

It was too early for even his Mother to be awake. Malik was infrequently awake so early but he did enjoy the peace when it happened. (Not as much as he might have enjoyed the sleep.) The house was too settled and quiet for his liking so he went outside. It was gray, the first catches of sunlight were just breaking across the horizon. Habit (and paranoia) had taught Malik to keep his hood up this close to a travelled road. The air was cool and the muffled sound of the early-morning-bird’s song inviting enough that he turned toward the path he that took him deeper into the forest. He hadn’t taken a full five steps when he was interrupted by the thump of Altair dropping out of the tree over his head. 

Malik did not scream but he did make an abrupt noise of shock. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“What are you doing?” Altair asked. He was smiling again (so different than the cowed, embarrassed thing he had been at the table last night). His height should have made it easy for him to avoid seeing Malik’s face but he ducked down to look at him under the cowl so Malik reached up a hand and shoved him backward by the face. “I don’t believe in curses,” Altair said to Malik’s hand.

“Spit on a fairy,” Malik said. “You’ll believe in them then. You’re supposed to be inside.” He let go of Altair’s face when he was sure that his point had been made. Then he stepped sideways to go around him. 

Altair allowed him to move around him, but also turned to follow, “You spat on a fairy?” He asked, sounding impressed and amused. Somehow _that_ was more annoying than anything.

“Yes.” He did not add that it had been stupid. That should go without saying given what the end result was. Then again, Altair did not believe he had actually been cursed and he did not sound like he thought spitting in the face of a fairy as stupid. Perhaps, Malik thought, that was probably because _Altair_ was stupid as well.

He considered trying to tell him to go back into the house again. He preferred to go into the forest alone, even Kadar seldom followed along. Then he remembered what Mother asked him to do and he held those words back. He chanced a look at Altair, found him just as infuriating as he was the day before and knew that it would be easier to convince him _now_ when he was able to act confident and full of himself, than if Malik were to drag him off somewhere where Kadar won’t find them _later_.

That realization did not make him feel better about having to tolerate Altair’s presence, but since it was the path of least resistance Malik chose it anyway. He huffed and faced forward again, “There are trolls living in the forest. Try not to get yourself eaten.”

“I’ve never seen a troll,” Altair said idly. He followed behind Malik. At first his footsteps were obnoxious, cracking over underbrush and kicking at little pebbles and dirt but they dwindled slowly to an eerie hush of sound before stopping completely. 

Malik turned to look over his shoulder and Altair winked at him. “How can you do that?” he asked. His own footsteps weren’t loud but they weren’t as delicate and soundless as Altair’s. Even when he stopped moving and watched Altair walk along the path he could not figure out how he managed it. 

“It’s a necessary skill,” Altair said. He did not explain the statement. 

“You can’t steal from the village people,” Malik said flatly. 

Altair rolled his eyes. “I don’t ever take more than I need. I didn’t take that man’s chickens but I did get a pocketful of eggs.” He was _proud_ of himself about it too. Perhaps more so now that he knew how greatly Silas valued his chickens. “Enough to make an omelet.” Then he reached up and grabbed one of the low branches of a tree and pulled himself up onto it with more grace than a man that spent his time homeless and hungry should be able to manage. 

“My Mother wants you to stay with us,” Malik said. (That, of course, was the primary reason that he should not be sent on missions like this one.) “You can pay rent if it helps your pride but it would make everyone’s life easier if you stayed.”

“Would it make your life easier?” Altair asked from some unseen place above him.

“No.” Because it was the truth, because Altair living with them would mean keeping his hood up even inside the house. It meant sharing a room with Kadar and all the trouble _that_ entailed. Malik did not like beating around the bush. Mother had asked for him to address things delicately, but the truth was that all he could offer was honesty. “But I am asking you to stay anyway.”

There was a faint rustling in the tree, Malik wondered if Altair had moved and if he would be able to find him in the branches if he could afford to look up.

“Because your mother wants you to?” The words were a sneer and it was such a transparent attempt to make him angry that Malik almost laughed.

As it was, his hood helped hide the way he couldn’t stop his mouth from curving upwards. “Because it is the right thing to do.” He said mildly, “You are free to accept or refuse the offer. Think on it, there is still time. For now, we should go.” He gestured to where the path splits and veers off to the right, “The spot where I gather the glass is further into the forest. If we want to make it back before we need to open shop, we shouldn’t stop here.”

There was silence for a moment, then a whisper of sound before Altair dropped back onto the ground. “Lead the way, then.”

They did not speak much after that. The clearing where Malik collected the glass was not very deep in the forest, but it was far enough that they saw the forest become noticeably thicker. After following the path for a while, Malik stopped and gestured for Altair to follow him as he went off the path.

It could not be seen from where they are now, but where the trees thinned out was a clearing with an old structure made of white stone. Its original purpose was a mystery. All Malik knew for certain was that the stone it was made of was always slightly warm to the touch even during the coldest day of winter and that the building must have had stained glass windows at one point from all the broken, coloured glass scattered around certain areas.

“The ground is uneven here.” He warned. Then, because he hadn’t heard if Altair was following, turned to look back as he kept speaking, “Be careful you do not--” 

\--trip. Like Malik did when his foot caught on a tree root sticking out of the ground.

Altair had only a split second to reach out a hand to try to grab Malik before gravity dragged him down toward the sloping forest floor. His reflexes were fast but the layers of Malik’s clothing were not conducive to finding a decent handhold. The man slid out of his grasp, hit the ground and went rolling down across the litter of broken bits and tree limbs. He came to a sudden stop (flat on his back) in what must have been a puddle of mud (or shit, it smelled like shit) big enough to cause the splash that splattered in a two foot radius all around him. Altair wasn’t in the habit of laughing (out loud) at other people’s misfortunes but he couldn’t contain himself. 

Malik was fighting to sit upright and failing as the slick (shit, it had to be some kind of shit just a great pit of it) moved under him and knocked him back again. He lay there in the foul puddle and sighed. The cowl that covered his face had not fallen back (a small miracle) the first time he fell and now Malik was hanging onto it with two pinched fingers. After a moment of pause he rolled to the side and managed to get on his hands and knees on a sturdy patch of forest floor. “Are you done laughing?” he asked. It was impossible to know how he felt about it without seeing his face. The words were nearly monotone by themselves--that could have been embarrassment or anger (or both). 

Altair was not, but the laughter died down into chuckles by the time he caught up to where Malik was. This close the smell was worse and Altair wrinkled his nose at it. It smelled bad, but Altair had slept in enough places with animals to recognize that whatever had left this pile of shit did not eat meat. The smell would have been even more unbearable if it were. He didn’t have the time to decide whether or not to offer Malik a hand up (because he was simply covered in it all over), before he was pushing himself up to his feet.

He expected Malik to at least strip off the top layer of what he was wearing, but he just straightened himself up and kept walking as if he weren’t covered in manure.

“Are you just going to walk around like that?” He was incredulous because Malik seemed like the type to be bothered. Altair followed him when Malik made no move to stop, but kept a respectful distance (to save his own nose).

“It’s fine.” Malik said as if bits of animal waste wasn’t falling off his clothes as he walked.

“You smell like shit.” Which was meant quite literally, “even if your sense of smell doesn’t work, mine _does_ and, I’m telling you that it’s not fine.”

Malik wanted nothing so much as he wanted to turn around and glare at him. He grit his teeth and walked faster, “then go back to the house. I did not ask you to come with me.” If Altair left then he could at least go the river and try to wash some of the filth clinging to him off.

“So you never take these off?” Altair said from behind him. “How do you do anything?”

Carefully. Quietly. And most of the time, solitarily. Malik shook his arm because there was a glop of the greenish-brown mess clinging to his fingers and Altair jumped back so quickly out of the way that he knocked into a tree and scared a bird out of it. His face, when Malik looked over at him, was unrepentant. Malik finished shaking his hand as clean as it could get (without water) and looked at the trees around them to figure out what direction he should go next. The stones and the water were in two different directions. It was possible (but ill-advised) that he could take Altair to where he collected the glass and then backtrack to the water to wash the horrific stench off his clothes. (If nothing else, having it rinsed off would reduce some of the smell.) “Just follow me,” Malik said.

“How bad is this curse that you’re willing to walk around like that?” Altair asked.

“This is better than the alternative,” Malik said. He wasn’t feeling kind enough to bother explaining why either. He just stomped along the path, getting more and more agitated with every foot fall as the stink hovered around him so overwhelming that his stomach was rolling over and his throat felt hot and thick. (He was not lying, it was _still_ better than the alternative.)

He reminded himself that they would go back to selling nothing if Altair were locked up in the inn.

He reminded himself of the most annoying of his suitors (including the one who would not stop calling Malik ‘the star of my heart’).

He reminded himself of all the reasons why the terrible smell wasn’t worth the danger of accidentally baring his skin, but it was hard. The alternative was just that, a possibility while the smell was very real and impossible to ignore _right now_.

With every step he began to curse in his head. His brother for snoring, the fairy for her ‘gift’, himself for being careless and, of course, Altair for _existing_ and for being insensible about curses. If he could be trusted to keep from looking like everyone else in the village then Malik could have avoided this problem.

It did not help his anger and, in fact, only agitated it. The buzzing of a fly near his head, attracted by the foul smell, was the last straw.

He stopped.

“You will find the glass there.” He pointed down the right path, “Just go straight. You will find a stone structure. You cannot possibly miss it unless you are blind. I will come get you when I am ready.”

“Where are you going?” Altair asked.

Malik stood there a moment to point down the path. “Go,” he said when Altair didn’t move immediately. He brought one of his arms up (now complete with a small cloud of black flies that were excited for a moving buffet) and held it up in such a way as to make his intention to fling the shit on Altair clear. “I’ll be back.” He didn’t move until Altair gave up and started walking. Malik stayed long enough to be sure he had done what he was asked before turning to head toward the river. 

He had discovered the river in his early explorations of the forest (back when he was angriest about the curse) and Mother’s response had been to teach him to swim. Not satisfied that he he could swim as any boy would be expected to (naked or with minimal clothing) she had proceeded to add layer after layer of clothing to him until he was a strong enough swimmer to survive the currents fully dressed in the many layers of clothing. At the time, it had seemed unreasonable as he was dragged under the water by the weight of his garments (time and time again) but it had served him well when he needed a quick escape from a lost suitor in the forest. 

This time, he found it by the promising smell of rushing water and the cheerful croak of the familiar frogs. The water was crisp (and cool in the shade) and it ran deep and clear. He hesitated only long enough to look around the forest for any obvious people that may have wandered here before he started stripping off his clothes, starting with the other most layer. Each item he removed was dropped to the rocks on the edge of the river until his chest was bare and and familiar bite of fresh air made his skin turn to gooseflesh. 

It was incredibly rare for him to stand outside (or even inside) without layers, upon layers of clothing on. He wished he could have enjoyed the feeling of being so very _light_ , the way the wind brushed over his skin and the sunlight that filtered through the leaves warmed him. He couldn’t help but feel nervous instead.

So he was quick to crouch down, to drag his soiled clothes over to wash out in the water. There was a limit to what he could do without soaps, but it was better than nothing. (Malik was painfully aware that he would be wet and cold, but at least the inner layers would help keep the wet cloth off him for a little bit.)

He wrung out the cloth when it was as clean as he could make it.

“How long do I have to look at you before the curse starts to work?”

Of course it had been simply too much to expect a man who slept in trees and stole bad artwork as a hobby to actually listen to what he was told. It wasn’t even necessarily a detriment of character that compelled Altair to this disobedience. Every stranger that had happened across him had made some manner of attempt to see Malik’s skin despite the many warnings they had been issued. Malik could not be specifically angry at any of them, but the cold dread (and bitter guilt) that passed through his chest was no less pleasant today than it had been years ago when he realized that it was _his_ fault half the village had gone mad. 

The damage, for now, had already been done. There was nothing that rushing to cover his exposed hands or face would do to lessen the effects it had on Altair. So he stood up and turned around to look at him. 

“You’re not actually that good looking,” Altair said. “I thought maybe you’d glow or something.” He was looking right at Malik without so much as a hint of the fever-pitch of madness that had taken over so many others. Instead of seeming to be on the verge of proclaiming his ever-lasting love and begging for a kiss (or honestly, quite a bit more than a kiss now that Malik was an adult) he cocked up an eyebrow and gave his body a casual once-over without being impressed. “Maybe you should find another fairy to spit on.”

Malik opened his mouth...then closed it without having said anything. He had expected to either have to somehow convincing Altair into leaving him alone or possibly hitting him with a rock if it came to it. He had not planned for a scenario where Altair was immune to the fairy’s curse since, apart from Mother and Kadar every single person who has ever seen him had fallen under it. He could not even find it in himself to be angry at the insults to his appearance, as surprise gave way to something close to wonder.

There was a whole notebook in his room, where he had painstakingly written down everything he knew about fairies and curses, and a list of all his suitors and what little information he knew about them. Not to mark them as conquests, but the attempt of a young boy trying to find some kind of pattern, some clue that might lead to him getting rid of this curse. But there had been no answer to be found and eventually he had given up on it, and accepted that the only place he could bare even the slightest bit of skin was in front of his family.

The idea that Altair may feel nothing was a new hope. Some indication that maybe, just maybe there had been something he’d missed.

“You feel nothing?” He took a step away from the river towards Altair, “you are not going to propose marriage or ask that I sleep with you? Truly?” 

“I feel relief that you smell less like a shit pile,” Altair said. Then he shrugged and dragged his eyes up and down Malik’s body one more time and looked pointedly at his bare face and neck. “I think you missed some.” He pointed at Malik’s chest where dots of the water and filth had splashed up from his attempts to wash the clothes. Before Malik could even come up with an appropriate response to this unprecedented disinterest, Altair motioned back toward the way he must have come from. “I’m going to go pick up glass now. I told you curses weren’t real.”

Malik was going to protest because this curse was most-definitely-real but he couldn’t think of anything to say. So he stood there next to the river and rubbed his wet hands on his clothes, trying to figure out how any of that had actually happened.

\--

He hadn’t figured it out when they got home, or when they left the house again to start setting up for the day.

He spent the better part of the day watching Altair from inside the cart and he cannot see anything special or different about him compared to the uncountable number of suitors who have fallen for him over the years.

Malik pulled out the notebook he had grabbed from his room earlier that day (the one with the list of suitors and the information Malik had been able to pull from them written in it) when they took a break to eat lunch.

On the newest page, at the very top was Altair’s name written in Malik’s neat script along with the day’s date and the approximate time of day Altair had seen him.

“Where were you born?” Was the first question he asked and Kadar stopped mid-chew (because he recognized that book) and looked from his brother to Altair and back again.

Altair had food halfway between the dish and his mouth when he wrinkled up his eyebrows at the question. The pause lasted on a second before he said, “is that important?” and put the food into his mouth. “Why do you want to know?” was asked around the food in his mouth.

Kadar (who could always be counted as helpful) said, “when did you see him without the clothes? How? Why are you so normal?” He had abandoned shoving food into his mouth to lean forward and back. His inspection of Altair yielded no results except for the growing unhappiness manifesting as a scowl on Altair’s face. “Did he see you?” Kadar asked Malik.

“Yes.”

“Why is he so normal?” Kadar asked. “Wait, maybe this is like that time Brady Evans saw you throwing up outside of the school.” That time being that Brady had acted completely normal for the rest of the day, reassuring Mother that he meant no harm at all before showing up (very suddenly and without an invitation) in Malik’s bedroom later that night. That was the night Mother started sleeping with her frying pan. 

“How many people have actually been affected by this curse?” Altair asked. He dropped his dish onto the edge of the table and leaned forward to flick his finger against the cowl. Malik’s hands were full of his own dish and the notebook or he might have slapped him far sooner than he did. The combination of his body jerking backward (and his head tipping up) and Altair’s fingers pushing at the stiffened hood pushed it back far enough that the sunlight blinded him. There was a gasp from somewhere close to-but-not-too-close to the cart. The sound of a body hitting the ground was audible just before the immediate call of:

“DUCK!” 

Malik’s eyesight cleared just in time to watch every villager within accidental glancing range slapping themselves in the face. Most of them had the good sense to be still but one had one hand over his face and one hand out in front of him feeling around for the road just before he ran into the corner of the building. 

“Yeah,” Kadar said. They all three of them watched poor Derrick roll over in pain without getting up to help him. Everyone else was chorusing if it was safe yet. “Pretty much everyone in the town.”

Malik pulled his cowl back up, all the while making sure to glare at Altair as he did so.

Once Malik’s face was safely hidden again, Kadar called out, “It’s okay guys! It’s safe!”

Then, and only then, did the people around them relax and go back to what they were doing before. There were a few sighs of relief and one or two people grumbled but apart from that life went on as usual, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

Altair watched the entire thing with the face of a man that was only just now considering that either there really was a curse, or there was something strange about the drinking water in this town. He looked down at his cup of water for a moment.

“As far as we can tell, only Mother and Kadar are immune. I assume it has to do with the fact that we are related by blood.” Having learned better, Malik took his dish and set it on the table and scooted back so he was out of arm’s reach unless Altair decided to move, “you are the first person besides them to be unaffected.”

“What kind of fairy did you spit on?” Altair asked. He had finally looked up from his cup in time to see Malik’s shoulders shift as he sighed. There was no guessing the expression on his face but the exasperation was clear enough. “I was born in Masyaf,” he said. 

The conversation was interrupted by the imminent approach of the wobbling man with a badge. He didn’t appear to be armed (save for the stick attached to his belt) but the self-important way he marched over toward the cart was reason enough to worry. Altair set his food and the cup down and shifted his weight forward off his seat. He had made it a habit not to run until questioned (running too soon, he’d learned, resulted in being chased with more determination). All the same he believed in preparation. He was set to move quietly toward the edge of the cart when Kadar’s hand against his chest knocked him back onto the stool he was sitting on.

“Sit down,” Kadar said under his breath. He got up and unhappily plucked the last bread roll out of the small sack they’d carried them here in. He held it out in front of him with one hand on his chest as he said, “constable Cherry, I know that you heard about what happened and we are very sorry. Our new employee is from out of town, he saw a bug on Malik’s hood and tried to knock it off--it was an accident. I assure you that we have explained the situation to him.” 

Constable Cherry did not look forgiving. “I don’t need any nonsense from you this week! We’ve got the festival coming up and you know how _accidents_ always seem to happen when there’s a lot of out-of-towners hanging around.” He turned to look at Altair with squinted-eyes and a sour-twist to his mouth. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll just make sure you don’t go trying to sneak a peek. There’s been a lot of good men and women taken in by that curse. It changes you.”

Altair couldn’t even pretend to be cowed by the words. But Kadar nodded for him. “I promise you, Altair understands the severity of the curse. Our Mother wouldn’t trust him to sleep in our house if he didn’t.” Then he dropped the bread into the Constable’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, sir.”

Constable Cherry took the bread with a grumble, “Your Mother is a saint for putting up with all this nonsense.”

The only benefit to Malik’s curse was that people tended to not bother him when he chose to ignore them. He and the constable were not on good terms with one another. It was bound to happen when so much of the problems caused by Malik’s suitors tended to end up becoming Constable Cherry’s responsibility. He hated the way the Constable talked about his curse and what happened to the people affected by it, but he holds his tongue because on some level he knows it to be true.

Even Mother had forbidden him from going to the festivals unsupervised when he had been smaller, after an incident where someone had accidentally bumped into him and knocked him to the ground. There had been ten people affected by his curse that day and, since there had been no room for them in the inn at the time, they ended up being housed in the local jail until a more suitable arrangement could be found.

Malik wrote ‘Masyaf’ under Altair’s name and waited for the Constable to be out of earshot before he said, “That’s to the north. You are awfully far from home.”

Altair shrugged, “I said I was born there. I never said anything about it being home.” 

He made a thoughtful hum at that answer before making a note in the margin.

“If there’s going to be a festival we should improve our inventory.” Then he dumped out his water and what was left of his dish. He dusted his hands off on his pants and picked up his stool to go back to the second table he’d taken over as his work station. The tools they had provided him with were not the best. His fingers were already cut here-and-there deep enough to get blood smears across the table while he was working. Altair either did not care about the blood or did not see the point in covering the new wounds until he was finished working.

Kadar sighed. “I was going to eat that bread.”

Malik rolled his eyes. 

\--

The idea of hiding what had happened had occurred to Malik, but only briefly. When Malik had realized the extent of his curse and the trouble it brought his family, he had resolved to be the best son he could be to try and make up for it. That included not lying to their Mother.

It would have worried her less if Brady Evans hadn’t set a precedence. That Altair had nowhere to go helped influence her decision but Malik knows that it was likely that she would be around to make sure Malik’s door was locked tonight.

Apart from having to inform Mother of the fact that Altair had seen under his clothing, dinner that night was a relatively drama-free affair. Altair was given a regular portion of food (that he still could not finish entirely) and tonight it was Kadar who had to help Mother with clean up. That left Malik with little to do.

In the end, he went to where they kept the bandages and medical supplies (learning how to bandage injuries and having the supplies in the house was just practical when every trip to the doctor’s was certain to be a disaster). After thinking on it, he stopped by his room as well to grab a pair of old gloves. He bypassed Kadar’s room entirely and went straight outside.

He wasn’t surprised at all to find Altair in a tree at this point.

“Any tips on how to avoid making your Mom think you I’m going to jump you in the middle of the night?” Altair asked. He was lounging on a tree branch, leaning back against the trunk of it with one of his legs lazily hanging down. He tipped his head away from whatever he had been looking at to look at Malik. “Your brother said she has a frying pan for these kinds of emergencies.”

Malik motioned him down toward the ground. “If you come here I can bandage your hands.”

“I’ve had worse.”

On the one hand, Malik was not displeased to find that Altair wasn’t affected by this curse. On the other hand, it would have been much more convenient for him if the bastard was more inclined to listen to him. “I am deeply impressed,” Malik said (not with any degree of seriousness), “if you’re finished proving how masculine and resilient you are, come down here. Your hands are making us money, they should be properly cared for.”

“Fine, mother,” Altair said. He tipped his body to the side as if he meant to just roll out of the tree and only just barely caught himself as he fell. There was a pleased smile on his face as he dangled from the branch by one arm (which was doing nothing at all for those cuts on his hand) before finally dropping to the ground. He presented his (now dirty) hands to be inspected. “I’m serious about your Mother. Any tips?”

“Stay in the room you’re put in,” Malik said. “We need to wash these wounds properly.”

Which required water. He considered if it would be easier to move the water or Altair before he shoved the supplies at Altair and headed back for the house. He fetched a basin to fill with warm water and grabbed a clean cloth before heading back. He half-expected Altair to have wandered off somewhere, or just hidden behind something just to be difficult.

Malik was surprised to find him sitting at the base of the tree with the supplies at his side. He tipped his head back and smiled at the look on Malik’s face. 

“Look,” He said when Malik set the basin of water on the ground in front of him, “I didn’t go anywhere.” He said it like it was worthy of praise and Malik snorted.

“So you’re actually capable of being sensible? What a surprise.” He wet the cloth and then wrung it out, “hold out your hands.”

Malik was not necessarily gentle, but he was efficient and thorough. If Altair had any complaints about it, he didn’t voice them. Malik dropped the cloth in the basin when he was sure Altair’s hands had been cleaned of dirt and whatever else had gotten onto his hands. In the process a few of the cuts that had closed over were reopened and bleeding sluggishly, but none of them looked particularly deep.

He pulled out a small glass bottle. He uncorked it and the strong smell of surgical spirits wafted out. “This will sting.”

Altair let Malik hold one of his hands with perfect stillness and reached up with the free one to push the cowl off his head. Around the back of the house (as they were) it was less likely that someone would see them. Learned, but not instinctual, fear jerked through Malik as he looked up from what he was doing. “What about you? If you see your own hand do you fall in love?”

Malik’s own hand was just about the only thing he _could_ love. Rather than answer the dumb question he caught Altair’s offensive, wandering hand and pulled it over to pour the spirits over the open wounds. Altair did not flinch or make a sound to register he any discomfort. 

“So what happens, usually? Do they try to kidnap you? Drag you off to their bed? Kiss you?” Altair asked. He was studying Malik’s face like the answers would be written there. When he could decipher none he turned his attention down to his own hands. “Thank you.”

He was indecisive about whether or not he should wrap the cuts. It was unlikely they would stay wrapped given Altair’s propensity for climbing things and disregarding all pain stimuli but they would benefit from being covered. “Don’t thank me,” he said, “I was serious about your hands making us money.”

Altair made a sound that was probably supposed to be offended but sounded amused, “I see how it is: you only care about the money I make you.”

In the end, no matter Altair’s own disregard for his injuries, Malik had become responsible for treating them correctly the moment he set out to do this. His motions were practised when he took one of Altair’s hands and began to wrap it in bandages. As Malik tied off the first one, he said, “I’ll change them for you in the morning.” To make sure the bandages hadn’t been discarded sometime during the night. Though whether or not it would be worth wrapping for the day remains to be seen. 

As he began work on Altair’s remaining hand, he asked, “What were you doing in the tree?”

Altair flexed his bandaged hand as if testing it, “I was reading.” Then, before Malik could accuse him of thievery, he pulled out a rolled up notebook with a dark grey cover. Malik recognized it right away as the one with all his suitors listed inside it.

He stopped mid-motion and stared.

There was nothing too personal or incriminating inside of it. Malik had started asking questions when he was twelve and the questions he asked tended more towards what people’s shoe sizes were or what their family did for a living. Still, there were names in that book, of people who had often been humiliated in their attempts to woo Malik, so he kept this one apart from the rest of his research notes. It should have been safely tucked away at the bottom of a locked chest.

When he had briefly returned to his own room he had seen no signs that anyone had been in there or rooting around his things.

“You are not going to convince my Mother if you make a habit of going through my things.”

“It’s not really your mother that I’m interested in convincing.” He gave up the book without protest. Malik tucked it inside of his robes and then reached up to pull the hood back over his face. The sound Altair made was exasperation in the split second before he reached up to shove the hood down again. “I told you that I didn’t believe in the curse and I don’t. I don’t think you’re any less condescending now than I did before. But you believe in this curse and I was curious about why.”

Malik scoffed at him. “Why?” 

There were hundreds of reasons why. They varied from unfortunate children too young to understand why they couldn’t run away and live with Malik to full-grown-adults that had to live with the unenviable shame of having begged his Mother to marry him when he was still nine years old. Every moment of his life after he spit on that fairy had been one lesson in the undeniable presence of this curse after another. 

“Yes, why?” Altair prompted. 

“The more accurate question is why are you immune?” he asked. “I have no intention of making you believe something that you find so obviously _laughable_. This curse exists and it has ruined my life. There’s nothing funny about it. Stop laughing.”

Altair bit his lips to keep the smile from spreading across his face but it didn’t stop the hiccups of laughter making his shoulders rise and fall. He cleared his throat to regain control over himself before saying, “you think shoe size and day of the week I was born on is going to help you figure out why your curse doesn’t work on me?” he asked.

“Probably not.” Malik shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit, “when I started this, I didn’t know anything about the curse only that I wanted it gone. Since I didn’t know what I was looking for I just recorded everything I could think of. I thought,” And even now, Malik could remember spending hours of his life poring over what information he had gathered, looking for a solution that didn’t exist, “if I wrote down everything, then I would be able to find some kind of pattern, something that would help fix this.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter _now_ (but it did because just because he has resigned himself to the fact that he was stuck this way did not mean he _wanted_ it), “until you showed up the only thing I learned was that being related by blood made people immune.”

“You wrote that one of your cousins was affected.”

Malik felt like he should be annoyed that Altair hadn’t only read his own page (and he _was_ ), but somehow he also expected it.

“She was a distant cousin.” Who lived so far away that Malik and Kadar had never even seen the family before they came by to visit when they were moving to a new city. He stood, brushing the dirt off his clothes before reaching into his pocket where he had tucked the gloves he’d gotten from his room. The leather had long since softened from age and use, but they were still sturdy and thick.

He dropped them in Altair’s lap, “Wear them when you work. They’re not work gloves, but they’re better than nothing.”

“Thanks,” Altair said. He didn’t even have time to pick them up before Malik was standing again. He jerked the cowl back over his head and tucked the supplies he’d brought out under his arm. “So if I stay in my room your Mother won’t hit me with a frying pan?”

“Yes,” Malik said. He simply didn’t want to spend anymore time outside listening to Altair’s disbelief about this stupid curse. Truth be told, he didn’t want to spend any more time at all thinking about Altair or the curse. He shoved the supplies back into their places and went to his room (forgetting for a moment that his room was no longer singularly his) and found Kadar there dropping some of his things on the floor. “Go away,” he said, “it’s too early for bed.”

Kadar was going to protest but Malik shoved him out of the door and locked it. The interior of his room was murky blackness. He shuffled his feet to keep from tripping over the newly added hazards on his way to the bed. Once he’d found his way he sat on the edge with the book pressed between his hands. He’d memorized the pages a long time ago, even before he stopped adding new entries. There were a few years worth of blank spaces where the men and women that had fallen to the curse had gone undocumented because there simply was no point in trying to find a commonality. Malik had accepted there was no cure for this curse.

Malik had accepted this was simply going to be his life. He was thus entirely unprepared to handle the kindling fire that was sparking up in his gut at the thought that there might be a reason to _hope_.


	4. Chapter 4

Soon, the festival was all everyone could talk about.

Some of the men went back and forth from the forest, bringing back wood to form a pile in the village square. They were building the bonfire that would be lit the evening of the festival. When Malik and Kadar had been children, the bonfire had seemed immense and impressive, and it was clear from the way the children stopped to stare and whisper that they felt the same.

“It’s the Midsummer Festival.” Kadar explained, as he helped set out the table. Then he tilted his head, “have you ever been to one?”

Altair, who was in the process of checking his tools, didn’t deign to look at Kadar when he answered, “I’ve been to a few. People usually just eat a lot of food and get drunk.” He set down the tool in his hand. Malik, as promised, had found Altair first thing in the morning and changed his bandages, though his work was hidden beneath the gloves. “Why would people come here?”

“Ah.” Kadar said with a grin and Malik went to work setting out the pieces Altair had finished with. He would much rather leave Kadar to explain. “You see, there are these flowers that grow in the forest around this time of year. They say,” Though like all legends, there was never any clarification about who ‘they’ were, “that these flowers are blessed by the Summer Lady and that if you find one and give it to the one you love it will bring happiness.”

“How many has your brother gotten?” Altair asked. 

Kadar laughed loud-and-hard. “Oh, I don’t know--more than anyone? There’s even a couple of crazy ones every year that try to catch him and take his clothes off to see him. It’s a game to them.” His laughter was tapering off but the blotchy-red amusement on his cheeks did not fade. 

Altair looked over at Malik setting the finished pieces out on the table. There was no way to know what he thought of the conversation with his face as utterly covered as it was. It seemed (from his body language) that he either had not heard or did not care about the conversation happening to the side of him. The tilt of his body was assessing the display of the new merchandise for most aesthetically pleasing arrangement. “Don’t they know about the curse?”

“Ha!” Kadar shouted. (It was most definitely not a laugh, but more like a punch.) He motioned both of his hands at Altair’s entire body. “Didn’t you? I bet you heard there was a curse and then _had_ to see if it was true. It’s the same for all of them. Not only is it stupid to tempt fate like that but it’s now illegal.” 

“It’s illegal to see your brother’s skin?”

“It’s illegal to see my brother’s skin on purpose during the festival,” Kadar corrected. “They tried to make it illegal all the time but Mother wouldn’t let them. She said, one day he might fall in love and it was hard to make a marriage work when you went to jail for looking at your husband.”

It is a curious thing that it is Kadar, the seemingly more genial brother, who seems more upset about it.

Malik was, in comparison, easily agitated and seemed to be naturally inclined to frowning at everything-and-nothing. Yet he has never expressed anything more than resigned acceptance of his curse for all that he said it ruined his life (and resignation sat oddly on his face, as if it didn’t entirely belong).

“What’s the punishment for seeing his skin?”

“A week in jail. Normally, there’s a room we lock people in in the inn. But if it’s the festival it’s to the jail for them.” Kadar jerked his thumb in, one would presume, the direction of the jail (or it could have been a completely random direction. Altair hadn’t been here long enough to know).

“Why a week?”

“That’s how long it takes the curse to wear off.” It was Malik who answered, having turned around with his finger tapping against the table surface, “I think we may want to get a bigger table. So we can show off the patterns the glass makes when the light hits it. Right now they just overlap each other.”

Kadar looked between the table and the cart they kept everything in, “how much bigger are we talking about? I mean, where would we even put it if we get one that doesn’t fit in the cart?”

There was a point to that. The cart was only so wide and so long. They had chosen this table because it fit so well inside (and because there’d been no reason to expect they’d need a larger one ever). He reached down to pull one of the little sculptures forward in an attempt to separate the light forms and did nothing but further distort it. “Then instead of a larger table, we will need a second one.” And maybe something more impressive than the dingy wooden table top to set them on. Perhaps even something that could be hung from the top of the cart for when the light moved throughout the day. 

“That doesn’t solve the problem,” Kadar said. “We still don’t have room.”

“We can stack them in the cart, or lay them on their sides,” Malik said. He waved his hand at Kadar’s objections like clearing them out of the air. “Do you want to go find us one or would you rather stay here and wait for customers?”

Kadar sighed. He was both better at selling and haggling than Malik. The choice between which he could do with more efficiency (in comparison to the other) brought a frown of concentration to his face. (Malik thought, maybe his brother was also considering which job would bring him in closer contact with the pretty dark haired girl that worked in the seamstress shop. She was known to pass by here but the best tables in town were made by Josiah and his store was only two away from the seamstress.)

“We’ll also need some table clothes,” Malik said. “Maybe something to hang here.” He motioned up at the peeling paint on the side of the cart. They had made some effort (in the beginning) to make a proper business out of their cart but rain and failure had ruined most of that at this point. 

“I’ll go,” Kadar decided. “But don’t sell anything for less than ten coins. Start higher than that and let them argue the price a little.” He seemed to decide that Malik was incapable of such a feat and turned to look at Altair. “Just don’t let him give the stuff away.”

Malik didn’t even bother pointing out Kadar’s tendency to give discounts to pretty girls. He just reached over and cuffed his brother lightly over the head. “Go. If you are so worried, then be quick and try not to get distracted along the way.” Then added when Kadar was already leaving, “make sure to get white table cloths!”

Altair watched the entire exchange with smug amusement and Malik was tempted to cuff him over the head too. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about my work.”

There is a tilt in Malik’s head that indicated he was looking at Altair though his cowl still hid exactly what his expression was. The way he scoffed seemed to hint that it would have been derision.

“If we want to sell to people we need to present it in the best possible way. Besides, it is _you_ I do not like, not what you make.” 

“You’re not exactly a prize either,” Altair said in return. There was more he could add to back up that claim but he felt the words worked well enough by themselves. Malik was looking toward him for a matter of seconds before his head shook under the hood and he set about picking up the pieces that didn’t fit well on the table. They were carefully set into a basket and then carried back to the cart. Altair tried to think of something to say that would break the tension and coming up with nothing decent or worthwhile, decided to say nothing at all.

\--

The morning had gone by in a slow-drag of curious stares but limited customers. Mary Dare had stopped by and chatted about how her relatives were visiting from out of town. (“You remember them don’t you, Malik? Remember Andrew? He was so cute following you around giving you those little yellow flowers that grow by Hansom’s fields. Well he’s coming back this year and I’m so excited to see how big he’s gotten. But my future husband’s mother is coming into town and I know she’s going to stop by and see my house so I need something to really impress her. I thought to myself, I’ve heard so much about this new artist…”) 

Absent anything better to distract himself with, Malik was left to quietly sweat to death in the growing heat of the day. He found himself watching Altair sorting through the broken glass he’d collected in the forest, holding it up to the sun and watching how the colored light filtered through. The categories seemed to be random at best but they made sense to Altair as he constructed his sculptures. There was sweat dripping down his face as he worked that he wiped away with the back of his gloves. It was after noon, just before the hottest part of the day when Altair finally set the tools down, “nobody is coming. Can’t we go swimming?”

Swimming sounded like a fantastic idea. It was endlessly preferable to this awful heat. Malik thought longingly of the cool waters of the river, then sighed.

He waved a hand at Altair.

“You go. I’ll stay here.”

Altair gave him a long, judging look, “because you are so comfortable here?” He started putting the tools away in the bag they were kept when unused, “I already told you I’m not interested in you.” (He almost added, ‘if you want to stay here and suffer that’s your choice’, but it sounded like he sort of thing Malik would take as a challenge.)

In response, Malik crossed his arms and tapped the inside of his elbow with a finger. His refusal had been automatic but with Altair immune to the curse there was no real reason to refuse. He was right, no one was coming after the number of sales they had made yesterday, their next sale was most certainly going to be at the festival. He watched Altair for a moment more before he gave in, “Fine.” He said before he started packing away the sculptures on the table.

\--

The heat got steadily worse as they walked down the path toward Malik’s house. Altair had even gone so far as to peel off his shirt and leave only the flimsy-worn-out one that he wore under it. It was gauze-thin and stuck to every bony curve of his body. Malik did not intentionally hang back a step to stare at the contours of Altair’s back but once he’d realized it was an option he was not sorry for lagging. Altair’s body was tight and slim, (most likely from lack of comfortable living). It had the look of a man who might have easily been able to add more bulk if he were simply given better (or more frequent) food. Now it was long muscle over heavy bone structure. His skin was a kind of golden color highlighted by glistening sweat.

“Did you have a stroke?” Altair asked. He had stopped by the front of Malik’s house (for who knows how long, really). His voice was a quiet hush like he was aware that announcing their intention to go down to the river to swim was a terrible idea. He carelessly threw his shirt toward the front porch of the house and then smiled at Malik as he went past him toward the path. 

The forest was cool if only because of the dense shade the trees provided. They made it half the distance before Altair reached forward to grab the back of his hood and yank it down. His voice was loud with astonishment. “Look at your hair.” He jogged up to walk next to him and stared and the (no doubt) red blush all across Malik’s face. “Have you ever gotten sick from the heat?”

“Yes.”

“Then why black clothes?”

Malik rolled his eyes. It had been proven (beyond a shadow of a doubt) that it did not matter how much of his skin was seen. If a man saw the back of his ear he was just as insane as a woman that saw all of his naked chest as a child who saw one of his bare hands. The curse was indiscriminate in that manner. Since his face was already on full view there was little reason not to start undoing the buttons that held the outermost layer of his clothing on. “Because black is the only one that worked.”

Back then he had been ecstatic at the discovery that something worked at all. Now he dreaded any temperature that was anything warmer than bitingly cool. For years now he had been ready for autumn almost as soon as _spring_ began.

He let out a quiet sigh of relief when he managed to undo the buttons enough that he could hook a finger under the fabric to pull it in and out in small motions to fan himself.

“Does it ever get this warm in the north?” Malik specifically did not ask about Masyaf in particular. While Altair may be fine asking whatever question that came to mind, Malik would rather avoid what could be sensitive subjects.

“Not as often as here.” He gave Malik a once over, “You would probably have an easier time in the north.”

“That is very likely.” Moving, however, was not an option. His family had had to deal with too much because of this curse. He wasn’t going to add the burden of moving to that as well.

It was still uncanny how silently Altair could walk. If Malik hadn’t been able to see him from the corner of his eye he might not have known he was there at all. What was even more interesting was the fact that Altair didn’t seem to be following Malik. He slowed his steps a fraction so that he walked just behind Altair and just observed. Altair was taking them to where they had gone to the river yesterday. Somehow or another he had remembered the way even though he had only walked it once.

Malik frowned.

“Why are you a thief? You are neither stupid nor too lazy to work. Surely you could have found someone willing to offer you employment.”

“I did,” Altair said with a grin. He half-turned to look back at him with squinting eyes like he was trying to figure out why Malik walked so slowly before he shrugged it off and turned his attention forward again. 

“You know what I meant.”

“Conventional employment requires a conventional life. Stealing requires nothing but the speed of my feet and hands. I am good with both. I’m less good with people.” He led them right to the edge of the water and once there immediately pulled the barely-there shirt off over his head. “Why does it matter to you? Do you suffer from the same sympathetic weakness as your Mother?”

There were many words that Malik might have used to describe his Mother, but ‘weak’ was not high on the list. He watched Altair strip off his shoes without making a move to remove his own clothing while he nursed over the offense of that word ‘weakness’. “If by that you mean, am I capable of genuinely caring about another person--such as yourself--’s personal well-being then no. I don’t suffer from that.” 

Altair was standing straight with two hands pushing his pants off his skinny hips. His face was utter innocence and his ridiculous body was as lean and toned everywhere as it was on his back. “There now,” he said as he stepped out of his pants. He was unashamed of his own nudity (and why wouldn’t he be), standing there brazenly bare beneath the sun and the trees with his hands on his hips like he was _trying_ to draw all of Malik’s attention to his dick. “We finally have something in common.”

Despite what his Mother thought about the matter, Malik had already decided that he would never fall in love (again after that first crush he had that never panned out into anything but unrequited love). He was not being pessimistic. He just didn’t want to expend the time and energy when, ultimately, he just could not see it working out long term. There is no harm in just _looking_ however; Malik turned away simply because he didn’t want to give Altair the satisfaction of knowing that Malik found him even the slightest bit attractive.

He pulled off the cowl and the outer robe first. These were folded before being left to the side. His gloves and boots followed after, then the first two layers he was wearing. That still left him mostly dressed. It had been many years since he’d been naked in front of anyone, the idea of being completely bare was simply uncomfortable at this point. The only reason he had stripped off what he did was because some of it would be ruined by the water and because he did not want to walk back home in wet clothes.

While the weather was warm enough that the cold would not be unbearable the weight of the water he’d be carrying in his cloths would be.

“You’re going to swim in all that?” Altair as he watched Malik sit down on the bank like he was convinced Malik was going to be dragged down by the weight of his clothes.

“Yes.” Malik did not slip into the water yet, instead he tipped his head back in a clear challenge, “I could probably swim faster than you even in all this.”

Altair waded out into the water until it was up to his thighs. Even with the heat of the day the water was almost too cool to stand. He let the water run through his fingers and breathed through the brief, quickening fear in his chest that always came when he was close to water (possibly) deeper than he was tall. “Probably,” Altair agreed. “I can’t swim at all.”

Malik sighed. “Don’t fall in, I don’t want to have to save you.” He inched his way into the water, making shocked noises at the chill of it. The water soaked into his clothes, spread up his legs even before he stepped into the deeper water. “Why did you want to go swimming if you can’t swim?”

Really, for a man who had spent the majority of his life (supposedly) beating back suitors, the fact that he couldn’t understand a perfectly good excuse to get yourself (or someone else) naked was surprising. Altair was going to open his mouth and say as much but he thought if he did Malik would stop easing his way into the cool water of the stream and go back to glaring out of the shadow of the hood. “It’s still hot,” Altair said instead. “Do you go to the festival?”

“I used to.” He admitted as he kept making his way forward until the water reached just above his waist. “But it was more trouble than it was worth so I stopped. It’s easier to keep people from seeing me if I just stay away.” 

Kadar had still been young enough to be interested, but it was easier to let their Mother take him while Malik stayed at home by himself with a book. Now he’d man the cart with Kadar instead, and stayed away from the festival proper where the crowds were always thickest.

It occurred to him as he cupped some water in his hands to splash his face with, that with Altair working with them now, it was likely that at least part of the crowd would come _to them_. He blinked the water out of his eyes and wondered if they should put up a sign to remind people of the illegality of looking at his skin (or if that would just tempt some people into trying).

Altair sat (but it looked ever so slightly like he was falling and tried to catch himself) in the water with a splash that sent a small wave of water over his head. The gust of shock that crossed his face was a curse in the air. He shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face to get the water off. “Well,” he said, “fuck everyone else. If you want to go, you should go.”

“It’s not their fault I’m cursed,” Malik countered. “It’s irresponsible--”

“Everyone is responsible for themselves. You’re not the one that’s taking off your hood. You don’t use this curse to your advantage but you _could_. In my opinion you’re already doing more than your share of work of keeping people from seeing you. So fuck them. Go to the festival. I’ll go with you, Kadar would too. We can handle anyone that looks like they can’t keep their hands to themselves.” Then he shook his head again and shivered in the water. 

There were a number of things he could have said in reply. He might have told Altair that he was too old to be starry eyed about going to a festival. He could have pointed out that _he_ was the one who spat on a fairy and that’s why it _was_ his responsibility. He might even have reminded Altair that he didn’t believe in the curse and that he should stop talking about things he didn’t understand.

All the things he might have said seemed hypocritical and false when Altair’s words made his chest constrict. Ever since the day his Mother held him by the shoulders and told him that, under no circumstances were he to take his hood down in public Malik had accepted that it must be on _him_ to keep people away. He had carried this burden for years without complaint and suddenly there was this--this thief, this intruder in his daily life that was telling him he didn’t need to be responsible, that it wasn’t his _fault_.

Malik stared at him mutely and knew the reason he couldn’t say anything was because he wanted to believe it was true.

He splashed more water on his face because there was an embarrassing sting at the back of his eyes. He wiped off the excess water and flicked it away from his fingers.

“We’re supposed to be working.”

“Think about it,” Altair said. Then he let the topic drop. It was instinct (not proper knowledge) that gave him the impression that pushing Malik to accept some realization was probably the easiest way to keep him from thinking it.

\--

The afternoon had been pleasantly lazy. After swimming, Altair had walked back to the cart to fetch his supplies and the tools. Malik had gone into his room to change the flimsy, damp layers of his clothing. (If Malik had taken advantage of the isolation to take care of the persistent arousal that had been nagging him since he had a full look at Altair’s naked body, there was nobody to know but him.) 

When was dressed again, Mother was back from purchasing fresh meat for their dinner. The extra money was a positive change in their lives but he had his doubts about the increase in income being the source of Mother’s sudden insistence on having high quality meat in their food. “You are home early,” she remarked.

“Everyone was busy preparing for the festival. There was nobody to buy anything. Besides, we needed to work on our stock so we have enough to sell during the festival.” It all sounded so much better than ‘well I was hot and Altair was semi-convincing about how we should take a break.’ Perhaps to prove his point or maybe just for lack any reason not to, Malik went outside to find Altair sitting on the low front porch with his back to one of the large posts that held up the overhang. He was holding up the glass to look through it for quality purposes and Malik sat on the lone chair they had. “How did you learn how to do that?”

“There was a glassblower who had a shop next to the orphanage.” He placed the piece of glass in one of the two piles he had started. Malik could not tell which pile was which even if he had been looking, which he wasn’t (he was too busy staring at Altair after that unexpected revelation). “I never went inside, but he had all these pieces on display in the front and when the light hit them just _right_...” He titled the piece of glass in his hand and it created a spot of bright red light on the porch. Then he shrugged and sorted the piece of glass, “I didn’t really learn from anyone. I just liked looking.”

The fact that learning and apprenticeships cost coin went without saying.

He wondered how Altair had ended up _here_ of all places and why he had chosen Kadar’s work to steal and make changes to. Malik was ashamed to admit the questions hadn’t quite occurred to him before, when Altair had simply been an ass who had dropped into their lives, someone who would be gone preferably sooner than later. Now, teased with a brief glimpse into Altair’s past, Malik couldn’t help but become curious.

After a moment of hesitation, he left the chair to inch closer, “how do you decide which ones are good?”

A smirk cross Altair’s lips and Malik had the distinct feeling that he had fallen for a trick when Altair leaned over so their shoulders touched, holding the piece of glass up to the light for Malik to see.

“You want ones that will give you a good color.” He angled it and Malik watched a bright spot of green appear on the porch, “white ones are no good so you should avoid them when you’re gather materials. Bubbles don’t really affect it unless they’re big. The pieces I use are small so I don’t want too many of those. And you want to make sure there aren’t any cracks. This one,” he picked one piece out from one of the piles, “has a crack. Here.” he taps it, “it’s probably going to break eventually.” Then he drops it back in its pile and puts the green one more carefully in with the other pieces that met Altair’s standards.

Hands now free, he reaches up and tugs Malik’s hood down. He can’t even pretend to be shocked. He still frowned, exasperated.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“Why do you?” was Altair’s quick rebuttal. His hands were still curled in the folds of the hood, his fingertips grazed across Malik’s neck when they moved slowly away. The touch was so miniscule that it should have barely registered and yet Malik had a hard time fighting back a shiver. “I think you forgot how to live your life without this.” He plucked at the hood again and then moved his hands away.

“I told you why,” Malik said. He moved to grab the hood and put it back up but Altair caught his hand and stopped him. “Let me go.” He jerked his hand away and Altair allowed it. His face had the brief twist of sadness as Malik pulled the hood up again. “You didn’t answer me.”

Altair shifted so they weren’t so close to one another. “I did answer you. You’re right, I don’t understand or believe in this curse. If I don’t, then I can’t understand why you live like this. It doesn’t make sense to me. I haven’t ever felt like I owed anyone anything. But if you need me to say it again, the simple version is that you deserve more than this.” Altair motioned at all of Malik’s carefully hidden body. “I don’t think this,” and then motioned to his cowl, “makes you happy and what’s the point in life if you can’t find something to make you happy.” 

“Having someone hang a banner outside their store asking me to marry them doesn’t make me happy either.” The rebuttal sounded weak even to himself. He was glad for the cowl in that moment for the way it hid his face and the expression on it. “This doesn’t make me happy,” because there is little point in lying to himself when the ideas Altair had planted earlier were still knocking around inside his head, “but it doesn’t matter. This curse isn’t going away and I can either accept that or I can torture myself thinking of all the things I can’t have.”

At some point, giving in to the inevitable was simply easier than fighting (and he realized that the child he had been would have sided with Altair and demanded he try harder but he has crossed many bridges since then).

“You kept the notebooks.”

Whatever Malik had expected Altair to say in reply it hadn’t been _that_ and it showed in the way his head suddenly jerked up.

“Why keep the notebooks if you’ve given up?”

That was stupid logic. It was infuriating, dumb logic. “Why are you homeless? Why are you starving and stealing from people when you have skills?” Malik motioned at the glass and Altair’s whole body. 

Altair licked his lips and leaned in close enough to see under the cowl. He was close enough that their noses might brush if either of them moved even to breath. His eyes seemed to focus on Malik’s as if he had the most important of wisdom to impart on him. “I’m free,” Altair said. “Nobody owns me. You should try it sometime. I’d be interested to see who you are without these clothes.”

Malik had been on the unfortunate receiving end of far too many terrible lines propositioning him with sex. (There were quite a few that had to deal with marriage. The curse itself seemed to attack one’s romantic-or-sexual whims depending on which was more important to the person who saw him.) He reached up to shove Altair backward away from him and rolled his eyes. “Imagine it in your dreams because you will not see it. You are not free, you are careless. You’re a cancer that infects good people and fills their heads,” he stood up while he was talking, motioned at his own head to make it clear what he meant, “with discontent. Do you think you’re the first person that had ideas about what I could do with this power? Keep your freedom,” he all but spit at Altair. “I don’t want it if the cost is so high.”

Altair wasn’t laughing at the end but smiling at him all the same. “Now you sound like a boy that would spit on a fairy. I like it.”

\--

Kadar came home ready to complain about lost revenues and _how could you guys just leave me like that?_ One look at Malik’s expression stopped him from voicing his complaints.

It wasn’t that Malik had never been angry, but the sort of unhappy anger he felt towards the summer heat and the other inconsequential things that bothered him did not fit the stories some of the adults used to tell about the older Al-Sayf’s temper (the very one that led him to spit on a fairy).

The fury Malik practically radiated was something Kadar hadn’t seen in a long time now and, before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “What happened?”

Malik didn’t look up and continued to set the table with more violence than was probably warranted, “nothing.” He said in a way that said clearly that something did and the person who pressed him about it was going to regret it, “get ready for dinner.”

It did not take a great feat of intelligence to uncover the most likely cause of Malik’s anger. Kadar went and washed for supper before taking it upon himself to go looking for Altair. He expected to find him in his room and when that turned up empty, he went outside and shouted for him. When the man came around the side of the house dusting bits of bark and leaves off his clothes, Kadar didn’t worry over what he’d been doing to get covered in the debris but, “what are you doing to my brother?”

The grin that crossed Altair’s face was _proud_ and not at all slightly ashamed. “Just pointing out contradictions in his logic.” He tipped his head to the side to peer inside of the house. “Did he send you call me?”

“No,” Kadar said. “Are you going to cause problems?”

“No,” Altair said. But it was the least believable statement of all time. He didn’t even seem like he could bring himself to believe it once the word was out of his mouth. “Dinner time?” And when Kadar nodded, Altair went inside straight away to comment loudly about how everything smelled wonderful before he went to wash his hands. 

Malik watched him go like Altair had said the single most hateful thing in the entire world.

His anger carried on throughout dinner as he stabbed at his food as if it were personally offensive to him. He did not say anything, but there was something purposeful about his silence and whenever he looked up, it was to glare at Altair as if he wanted dearly to set the man on fire with just the force of his stare.

It did not go unnoticed, but Mother had waited until they were cleaning up for dinner (it was his turn to help tonight) to bring it up. When Malik all but threw the pot into the sink, she made a disapproving sound and put a hand on his arm.

“Tell me what happened.”

“...it’s nothing.” At the very least, it was not what she feared (because while Malik had learnt to deal with the curse through apathy, Mother had never managed to shake the dread that one day someone will steal her son away), “Altair was being pig-headed and selfish. It is nothing you need to be concerned about.”

She reached up to push his hood back and cup his face with a frown and he ducked his head instinctively to make it easier for her. 

The expectation that he further explain himself was clear. He didn’t look at her face directly but to the side. Without the helpful shadow of the cowl to cover his own face he felt exposed and uncomfortable. “He thinks I--” _am not happy._ (Why would he be? Who could be happy trapped in a prison like this?) “--I shouldn’t take so much of the responsibility of protecting other people from me. He thinks I shouldn’t have to wear all this.” He motioned at his own body. “He- he--thinks I should go to the festival. That’s stupid. He said that he’d be there to protect me and what does that even mean? I have done just fi--” His rant was cut off by the slow-growing smile across his Mother’s face. Her hand touched his cheek again and she looked so very _happy_ about how unreasonable and irresponsible Altair was.

“You should go,” Mother said.

“What?” Malik demanded. “No. No I shouldn’t go because it’s reckless and _dangerous_. What’s even going to happen at the festival that’s worth the risk of having to spend another week listening to how I’m the reason the county jail is full? Or knowing that people are embarrassing themselves because of me? Tucker Smith still will not _look at me_ even if I’m completely covered.”

Mother waved her hand in the air, sweeping away the whole affair of Tucker (who had been Malik’s friend before the curse and one of the first unfortunate victims of it after), “there’s a lot to see at the festival. Your brother can go with you too. It would be good for you. Let the others take care of themselves for once.”

Mother agreeing with Altair wasn’t something he could have anticipated. Even if he had been less preoccupied with seething quietly he would not have guess _this_ would be what she had to say on the matter.

He could not dismiss his Mother like he could Altair so all he did was duck his head and busy himself with scrubbing the pot and say, “...I’ll think about it.”

\--

His Mother’s words did not pacify the anger, only added confusion to the mess of things Malik felt. It left him feeling off-kilter, like the whole world had turned on itself while he wasn’t looking. He was still trying to work through what it was he felt about it when he went outside with the excuse of checking their supply of firewood. He thought the night air would help clear his head.

Malik really should have remembered that Altair was more often found outside the house than inside it.

There was no immediate attack. Altair looked at him from where he was leaning against the tree (the very picture of casual arrogance) and didn’t launch into (yet another) dissertation on how Malik was living his life wrong. If anything, he looked sheepish about being discovered. Almost as if Malik had interrupted him in the middle of a thought (or a private act). Altair cleared his throat and his eyebrows flinched together in acute embarrassment before he moved his arm out from behind his body. He was holding a peach out toward him. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

There were not many peach trees in this area. While Malik couldn’t say with absolute authority that the only reasonable decent peach trees within a quick-jog’s distance from the house belonged to Ewan Tanner, he was reasonably sure the peach he was being offered was pilfered goods. He let out a breath and then a laugh. 

Altair smiled at his exasperation. “What? Is that guy obsessed with his peach trees the way the other one was obsessed with his chickens? I need to know because I saw a couple of weirdly smooth knots in the base of the tree and if he’s been sticking his cock in one I don’t want to eat this fruit.” It was a miracle, really, that Altair managed to get out that whole ridiculous statement with an utterly straight face. He was still looking repentant and sincere with one hand stuck out offering the peach. 

Malik laughed because the only other option was to turn around and go back to the dreary black interior of his room. He laughed because Altair was so desperate for him to laugh and it showed in his stupid face. He laughed because he was _unhappy_ and _angry_ and Ewan Tanner had taken to telling everyone in the town that Malik had slept with him because he was embarrassed about how he’d proposed marriage by delivering half a crop of fruit to his house (much to his actual fiancée’s embarrassment). “Oh,” Malik said when his face was hot and there were tears on his cheeks from laughing so hard. He knocked the hood off his face because the heat stuck inside of it was muggy. His shoulders were still shaking with laughter when he said, “I hope he does.”

It was clear Altair didn’t understand the joke but he turned his hand over and let the peach fall. It rolled on the ground before he kicked it even farther away. “Let’s not eat it then.”

“He charges a lot for those at the market.” Oh, and he sounded downright _delighted_ by that. The anger that had followed him like a shadow was hard to sustain after laughing so hard. “Mother thinks I should go with you to the festival.”

“Does she now?” It was not phrased as a question, but there was a curious lilt to Altair’s voice that seemed to be searching for what Malik thought about it. 

Since he did not know himself, there was no answer for him to give besides a simple, “Yes.” 

Malik wiped at his cheeks, less to deal with the dampness that has already since dried and more to buy himself precious seconds of time to think. “You are infuriating,” with his anger successfully disarmed (and it should worry him, perhaps, how easily Altair had managed it), there was no heat behind the words, “I have spent years becoming accustomed to this life. Then you come along and in less than a day you have turned my world on its head. You know nothing about me or what life I have lived but you speak as if you have the right to lay judgement at my feet.” the words are hushed as he spoke, “But what you’ve said is not wrong.”

Altair rocked on his feet for a half-breath before he reached out and grabbed Malik by the hand. “Come on.” Then he pulled him away from the house, “tell your Mother you’re leaving so she won’t worry.”

“I’m leaving!” Malik shouted back toward the house. Altair started to run with his hand closed around Malik’s wrist and the momentum pulled ups both out of the brighter light around the house and into the dim forest. Malik picked up enough speed to match Altair and they ran side-by-side kicking up debris that littered the path. “Where are we going?” Malik asked.

Altair pulled them off the path and in between a set of trees. His feet were fast in the dim light as he picked a path that was easiest to jog through. Malik had been through almost all of the forest but his adventures had been regulated to daylight hours when he could see things clearly. Out here in the dark, he had no better idea where he was than if he’d been dropped on an alien planet. Altair stopped suddenly and turned around with such perfect precision that Malik crashed into his body and found himself hugging the smug jerk with their bodies pressed tight-against-one another. “Here,” Altair said. His breath was fast and his cheeks were pink in the dim light between the sun dropping below the horizon and the moon reaching its full height. 

“What are we doing _here_?” Malik asked. He stepped back and dusted off his clothes. He was halfway through removing a patch of dead leaves from his sleeve when Altair caught his hand in both of his and held it like it was _sacred_ to him before he plucked at the ends of gloves one-finger after-another. It loosened slowly, slid across his palm like a slither until it was all of a sudden gone. Altair’s hand against his was dry and rough. There was dirt caught on the pads of his fingers that mixed with the dampness on Malik’s palm. All of the fool’s attention was on touching him. Malik’s heart was pounding in his chest. The reckless run through the forest had made his chest seize with a lack of breath but this simple thing, this rare touch, made his heart feel as if it would break through his ribs. “Did you bring me here to take my clothes off?” he asked.

Altair chuckled, the sound soft and breathless as he slid his hand up until his fingers fit between Malik’s, until their hands were resting palm-to-palm, “What do you think?” The setting sun painted the world in warm hues and it seemed to highlight the warmth in Altair’s eyes as he smiled (and Malik wanted to pocket this moment for himself so it couldn’t disappear like the light patterns made by one of Altair’s creation. There and gone without a trace.)

Then Altair snaked an arm around his waist and pulled Malik in close, close enough that all he had to do was bend his head to kiss him.

Malik’s first kiss had, ironically, been given to the first victim of his curse. He and Tucker had been friends since they had worked together to beat off the village bully who had thought because they were smaller and skinnier it was all right to try to push them into the pig pens. They were friends and nothing more so, absent the shock and confusion over why Tucker was suddenly kissing him, there had been nothing memorable about it.

Back then, he had been convinced that the storybooks must have been exaggerating about how special kisses were.

He had never once imagined what it might be like to be kissed like he was loved. Even if he did, he doubted his imagination could have come up with how warm Altair’s lips were, how they were chapped but still pliant. He could not have conjured up the weight of Altair’s arm around his back, as if he never intended to let go.

He could not have, not in a million years, guessed at the way his knees would feel weak and his heart would beat faster than it ever had, as if it were trying to leap out of his chest.

Then his brain caught up to what was happening and something like dread settled in his gut. He shoved Altair back as hard as he could, untangling their hands to press it against his own mouth. He pushed at Altair’s chest until he could take a step back unsteadily.

“You said you weren’t affected.”

Altair didn’t launch into a protest (as so many suitors before him had, swearing on their lives that they really-weren’t-cursed) but look so desperately sad that the huff that came out of his mouth seemed out of place. His shoulders were loose and low and he said, “what the hell have they done to you?”

“What are you trying to do?” Malik demanded. “I don’t want to be--”

“Alive?” Altair shouted at him. 

“You won’t even feel like this in five days,” Malik shouted at him. Everything in his body that had been warm-and-good only a minute ago was stuttering to a cold stop now. (Hope was the worst when it was defeated.) “ _Nobody_ ever _feels the same_ in _five days_.” It took a full week to detox but he’d been reliably informed that by day five, his name was no longer a sweet thought in their heads. He turned around to leave and Altair grabbed him by the hand. “Damn it,” Malik shouted at him. “Let me go.”

“You’re infuriating,” Altair hissed at him. He let go of his hand and stepped away. “You’re-- _stubborn_. You’re dour! You are like a bitter taste that you can’t wash out of your mouth. That little pebble that gets stuck in someone’s shoe.” He gestured with every word. His fingers were pinched close together to show the miniscule size of the rock he meant. “You want to convince yourself I’m under a spell and there’s no other reason that I could like you, then do it. Walk away now, go sleep in your dark room with your two layer pajamas or whatever you wear and write me up in your book.” Then his body was sliding closer again, his hands were cupped around Malik’s face and his fingers were rubbing away the dampness from tears Malik didn’t even know were on his face. “But it’s not true. I don’t need you to love me. I don’t need you to kiss me or let me hold your hand--or any of it. I _want_ you to know there’s more to life than this.”

There was a useless hiccup in his throat, so it took two tries before Malik managed to say, “And if you’re wrong?” even as he reaches out to grip Altair’s shirt front, to forestall any possible attempt at leaving. Of all his suitors not one of them had expressed the sentiments Altair just did, it was always about them securing Malik’s favor through gifts, through marriage or through feats of (stupidity) courage. “If you’re wrong then what am I supposed to--” _do with how I feel?_ He could have laughed at the irony of realizing only when he wasn’t even sure this was something he was allowed to have. He held it back because if he started, he probably wouldn’t stop until he broke down in hysterics.

“I’m not.” Altair pulled him close as Malik took a step closer, pressing their foreheads together.

It would have been ridiculously easy to tilt his head and kiss the idiot. They were close enough that their breaths mingled when they breathed.

Malik closed his eyes and relished the feeling of being held and of being close to another body. When he opened his eyes again, there was a determined set to his gaze.

“Five days. _No._ ” He says sharply because he could feel the way Altair’s body tensed and see him open his mouth to protest, “No. I need to be sure, Altair. It’s not just for my sake but yours as well. My happiness is not worth your freedom.” Then, because he could (because it may be his last chance to do so), he kissed Altair.

Altair nodded when Malik pulled back. He let Malik have his own space again but clung to his hand until both their arms were stretched out to full length before he relented and released him. “I really did bring you out here to get you naked,” Altair said. He smiled then like a relief from the stress.

Malik sniffled and laughed (pitifully), “well too bad. Do you know the way back?”

Altair nodded and then dipped down to scoop his fallen glove up off the ground. He handed it back and then found the path back home. When they were there, Altair hesitated away from the door with an awkward shift to his body and a backward motion toward the tree he was fond of sitting in. “I’ll be inside in a bit. Tell your mom not to hit me with a frying pan?”

“No promises,” Malik said. He went inside, praying all the while to anyone (or anything really) that cared that he would not be found by Mother. After a quick stop in the bathroom to make sure he didn’t look conspicuously mussed, he went to his room. 

Kadar was already there, lying on his pile of blankets on the floor. He put down his ledger to tip his head up and say, “need me to beat him up for you?” 

“No,” Malik said. “I’m going to sleep. The lamp is going out.” He didn’t even give Kadar the time to protest before he dimmed the light. “Go to sleep. We have to repaint the cart tomorrow.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was uploaded three times. That has to be some kind of record.

Malik was surprised when things were not awkward in the morning. They went about breakfast as they had for the past two days. Apart from Kadar looking between Altair and him like he was confused, the only real change is that Malik was aware when Altair’s eyes lingered on him.

(He was not subtle at all and Malik was embarrassed to realize he hadn’t noticed before this.)

The three of them were out by the cart, discussing what colour they should paint it.

The cart might have originally been red, but time, the elements and lack of care had left it an unattractive shade of warm brown, interrupted here and there by splotches of grey where the paint had either peeled off or been scratched off.

Kadar had been the one to propose that they should paint it red and do the details in white. He had come to this conclusion after carefully considering the cart from every angle.

Altair made a face at that suggestion, “That would make it look like a barn.”

When Malik (who, having accepted that he didn’t have a single artistic bone in his body, had begun work on stripping the old paint) laughed quietly, the look Kadar shot him was nothing short of betrayed.

Malik only shrugged his shoulders, “he’s the artist, remember?”

“Well then what color would you paint it, _artist_?” Kadar asked. He had never handled being denied his whims with any grace. (That unfortunate trait was likely born from the fact that everyone was very eager to let Kadar have whatever he wanted and encourage him regardless of how intelligent or worthwhile his ventures were.) 

“Blue,” Altair said. “Maybe blue and green? Yellow if you want to stand out.” He was sorting out his tools on the wobbly square table he’d stolen for a work table. He didn’t look up in time to see Kadar grimace at the suggestion and turn away with a gruff growl. Rather than that, he lifted his head just in time to see Malik looking at him (not at his work but at him) and smiled at him.

Malik hated him. (And was torn between disastrous hope that Altair wasn’t under the effects of the spell and realistic dread that he was.) 

“But you’re the one going to get the paint,” Kadar said. “If I leave you two alone, you’ll be running off to go swimming and waste the afternoon again.” He motioned at Malik to head further down into town to the general store to see about paint. “You know much old Greavy likes you. Tell her I said hello.”

Old Greavy did not like Malik. Old Greavy had been a new widow when she fell in love with him after happening to see his bare hands because Kadar tore his gloves with his constant wiggling and attempts to get away from Malik’s dutiful hold on him. While most of his suitors had immediately launched into love poems and over-reaching demonstrations of their affection, Old Greavy had only cried while she held him to her withered chest and rocked back and forth. She said, ‘I never thought I’d feel this way again’. Malik had the distinct pleasure of knowing that not even a month after the woman lost her husband (of forty one years) he had inflicted his curse. Out of all the people that had reasons to dislike him, he felt her reason was most especially worthwhile.

“All right.” Malik said, handing the tool he’d been working with to his brother. It was not ideal, but he also recognized when Kadar was attempting to exact petty (and ultimately harmless) vengeance for the way they had abandoned him yesterday. (It also got him away from Altair and maybe distance would be enough to distract him from dwelling on the kiss last night.) “Blue and either green or yellow, right? Does it matter what kind of blue it is?”

“A lighter blue would stand out better.” The tool he was turning around in his hand was set down. “I should go with you. Obviously neither of you know what you’re doing.” Altair said as if it were perfectly reasonable without a hint of an ulterior motive as he stood up.

Malik’s suspicious frown was hidden under his cowl, but Altair could easily imagine it.

Kadar was the one who made an annoyed sound, however. “No. We need more stock to sell at the festival and there’s no point in sending Malik if you go too.” He pointed at Altair’s work table, indicating that he should sit back down.

He wasn’t sure what face Altair was making to that since he was leaning back into the cart to pull out a small pouch of coins. “I’m sure I can manage to pick out paint by myself. If you have so much free time, then help Kadar strip off the old paint.” Then, more gently, “I won’t be long.”

(No matter how much he reminded himself it was the curse, he could not bring himself to push Altair away. And it was dangerous to think like this but he couldn’t seem to help it.)

“Take your time,” Kadar said (loudly) but Altair said nothing besides a nod of his head to acknowledge that he’d heard the words. Malik walked away before Kadar could start in on another lecture (one that nobody wanted to hear). Altair’s silence was only significant because so many of his suitors would have all but burst into song to protest being told to stay. Malik shook his head as if the action could clear out all such thoughts. 

He concentrated on his walk, on the sound of the many businesses that led to the center of the village banging around inside-and-out of their shops to tidy up and improve their look. The inn had all of its windows open and a great deal of it’s employees shaking out bed linens and complaining about having to beat out carpets. The baker’s anxious anger had driven his son out of the shop with flour covering his face and hair. The general shop was full enough to spill out into the street. 

“Oh,” Mary Dare said when she saw him. “What are you doing here, Malik?” 

“I came to see if they had paint,” he said. He hovered at the back of the line, listening to the grumbling of the women (and very few men) worrying over the impending deluge of distant relatives and visitors. There were a few asides about how delightful the festival was and mroe than one Mother whispering stern threats to her children. 

Just the sound of his voice made the people in front of him look backward. The Mothers (with curious children) and the women (despairing over unfinished housework) cleared their throats and set about tapping shoulders and nudging ribs. The whole crowd rippled and broke apart down the center as one-after-another they invited him to go forward before them. 

Mary Dare was (at least) somewhat embarrassed for how eager the crowd was to get rid of the threat he posed. She mouthed, _sorry_ at him but the expectation was still clear that he go ahead and fetch what he needed so he could be gone again. Perhaps it was in the middle of the embarrassing walk through the parted sea of bodies, or maybe it was standing in front of old Greavy (while she shrewdly refused to look at him) or even perhaps at the way the whole interior of the shop had gone quiet when he came in, but one-way or another, Malik had decided that he was going to the festival. 

(He thought how proud Altair would be, and how proud that stupid boy that spit in the face of a fairy was _at last_.) He carried the thought like the heavy cans of paint all the way back to the cart. 

\--

The thought had turned into a resolution by dinner time and he announced it in between bites of food as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Kadar was shocked into trying to speak around a mouthful of food that earned him a reproving look from their Mother.

In the time it took him to swallow, Malik had already gone back to eating.

“What?” Kadar looked from Mother’s wide smile to the pleased smirk pulling at the corner of Altair’s mouth and slowly realized that he was the only one who was surprised, “I’m missing something. What’s happening? I mean, I don’t mind, but you never go to the festival.”

“You can show Altair around.” Mother said after she wiped her mouth with a napkin, filling the space so that Malik did not have to answer, “I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

Mother did not specify whether she meant both of them when she said ‘you’, but if Kadar had to guess he’d say she was speaking more to Malik than him.

If Malik caught on to that at all, it didn’t show, “We can go when it’s darker. Fewer people will be out buying things.”

“We can go to the bonfire.” Kadar was still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that his brother who had, thus far, seemed uninterested in (anything) the festival was now proposing they go. Even so, he’s latching onto the idea because in some distant part of his memory he remembered how impressive the bonfire had been, and how hot the flames were and how he’d clutched at his brother’s pant legs as they fire stretched high into the air.

Altair nodded agreeably, “I think that sounds like a great idea.”

Malik tipped his head back and let the hood fall. The change in the brightness made little green spots fill his vision but after a moment of blinking they cleared away. Kadar was staring at him with his utensil half-raised to his mouth and his eyebrows all in tufts of worry. “Altair should help clean up tonight,” Malik said. 

Mother was going to object (guests simply did not ‘clean up’) but Altair cut her off with a swift, “I’d be glad to help.”

\--

There had been a noticeable increase in unknown faces the day before, but now that the day of the festival had arrived, they were pretty much everywhere. Even though they were there to set up early, they couldn't avoid them.

The number of people who were there when they were setting up could easily be counted on one hand. A couple of them seemed more interested in seeing Malik than anything given the way they pointed and stared. Malik was willing to simply ignore them, but Altair was sizing them up. It was Malik who reached out to touch Altair's elbow and told him, "don't cause a scene." He squeezed a little, "we will give them something else to stare at soon enough."

More people gathered as they set out the tables. Their cart, freshly painted in cornflower blue with accents of yellow, stood out just as Altair had promised. A few people remembered them from previous years and were curious about this much more extravagant display from a cart that they only remember selling junk.

Kadar helped him cover the tables in the new white table clothes while Altair glowered hatefully at the assembling crowd. He managed to do that and set out his sculptures at the same time but it seemed like he was less involved in making sure his work was displayed in a way that made it look best and more concerned with sizing up the potential enemies. “I bet two gold coins your new boyfriend beats someone up before the end of the day.” He didn’t sound as amused by that prospect as he usually did about potential violence.

“I’m not betting on that,” Malik said. When the tables were set, he moved to stand behind them. The familiar dread of the inevitable was perking up in his gut. The only difference was the sensation of anger that was churning up with it. His hands were in fists as he watched the fool boys in the crowd. Malik was not so old but those idiots in the back of the crowd chatting back and forth among themselves about him. Their chittering was interrupted only by the occasional laugh and hastily pointed fingers in his direction. From their size, he might have guessed they were adults but from the joy of the disrespect they had planned it seemed like they were more likely children. 

It was easy to hide his furious scowl with his head tipped down and the shadow of the cowl hiding his face. He was so intent on watching the bet about who would catch a glimpse of him first (and be unaffected) that he didn’t notice Altair moving around until his work table was slammed down next to him and the stool was abruptly dropped into place.

Malik started then stared as Altair sat down. 

“This happens every year?” He sounded incredulous and Malik wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t believe so many believed in the curse or because Malik had chosen to put up with it all this time.

“Unfortunately, it does.”

He had watched Altair work with his tools when he was confident in not being caught and Malik watches the way he holds them now. They were not weapons, but there was something distinctly threatening about the way Altair was handling them currently. The slim, metal thing in his hand could easily be replaced with a knife and it would not look out of place as he continued to glare out into the crowd, easily zeroing in on the ones who were now no longer laughing but looked uncomfortable. He grinned at them and there was absolutely nothing nice or friendly about it.

Malik continued to stare because he had heard Altair’s promise at the river but hadn’t thought about the sincerity of it.

Then Malik laughed even though he should have been telling Altair off and warning against scaring potential customers away. It was short, barely a huff of breath and he covered his mouth to muffle it, but when he looked again Altair was staring at _him_ now and he knows he must have heard it. 

Altair smiled slightly before going back to his work.

\--

By early afternoon the combination of the heat and the direct sun had created a sweltering pocket of heat that left Malik feeling steamed while he sat in the sliver of shade created by the cart. The first several layers of his clothing were soaked through with sweat and he was having sweet daydreams about the cool water of the river. 

Kadar was holding a conference between Altair and a group of customers that were curious if he would take commissions because they adored his artwork but they wanted something with specific colors and a certain kind of design. (Malik was listening only enough to know that an exorbitant amount of money was being offered, Kadar was agreeing on behalf of Altair who was trying to ask specific questions to see if it was even possible.) 

The heat made his head hurt in a way even the many, many glasses of water he’d tried drinking couldn’t help. Malik leaned his head against the wall of the cart, where the smell of fresh paint was the strongest, and let his eyes fall shut. It didn’t help his headache or relieve the heat but it was easier to rest that way. He listened to the many footsteps and bodies moving all around him and was therefore unable to pick out the individual sound of anyone approaching him until he felt the shift of his hood being pulled out of place.

He reacted on instinct, reaching out to catch the hand on his hood while using his other hand to pull his hood down over his face again. He did not yell because yelling attracted attention and it was already too late for the fool who was responsible judging from the wide eyed look of surprised adoration in his eyes, but maybe he could still prevent it from getting worse.

He shoved the idiot (and he was an idiot who was not only flirting with the chance of being cursed but who didn’t even have to sense to try in a way that allowed him to deny that it was on purpose) back with a snarl.

It was the idiot who shouted, “no, wait!” before Malik could get his hood up properly, and it drew more attention to them. There were some gasps and the sound of a couple of people shouting about covering their eyes just as the idiot released Malik’s hood only to grab him by the shoulders, “Don’t push me away! I love you!”

The momentum of the stranger being pulled away from him was so great it nearly threw Malik forward to the ground. He only just managed to catch himself before he landed on his face. Kadar was saying something to the side as the general sound of the crowd surging forward grew louder. 

“Marry me!” someone was shouting. 

“No, I love him,” was another.

Then there was the man that instigated the whole disaster, trying to get around Altair to grab Malik. He didn’t even see the fist that smashed into his jaw. The man crumpled to the ground, grabbing at his face and sobbing, “I love you, can’t you just let me love you? I just want to love you?”

This was the point at which Malik would slink away with guilt. He had done it so often his body was nearly folding in on itself out of habit. Out in the crowd, the locals were consoling or restraining the unfortunate people who had looked up at him and caught a glimpse at his face. On the ground, the man was rolling onto his belly to crawl toward him with his hands stretched out like he just wanted to touch any bit of him he could get. Altair reached down and grabbed him by the collar and threw him backward toward the crowd. His whole body was in attack mode; anger seemed to puff out his slim body. 

“Should we go?” Kadar asked.

They should and the man he was just six days ago would have said ‘yes’. He would have gone home and kept himself there until it had all blown over to avoid both the suitors and the inevitable stares and whispers that would follow him. Except staying home didn’t change anything; the suitors stalked him back to the house, and people still stared and whispered no matter that it wasn’t even his fault some idiot from out of town decided to pull his hood up.

Malik stood straighter with that thought (and he heard an echo of Altair’s words from the river again, everyone is responsible for themselves.)

He reached out to put a hand on Altair’s shoulder because there was no need to actually attack anyone and because Malik was more than capable of protecting _himself_.

“Someone should get Constable Cherry,” He looks at the man who was being held back by Gavin (the shoemaker) and someone else (Malik vaguely recognizes him as someone the idiot had been talking to), “tell him there’s been a crime.” 

Altair was standing somewhere where he was blocked from Malik’s view by his cowl but he could easily imagine the expression on his face, smug and proud and perhaps still a bit angry (which was not inaccurate but he didn’t realize that in addition to all that Altair also found his assertiveness attractive.)

Kadar was sighing to the side. “There goes our profits.”

\--

After Constable Cherry finished investigating the situation (which was over rather quickly as there had been numerous witnesses to point out the out-of-towner was the one responsible for the debacle) and the gawking crowd of spectators thinned, it was universally decided to break for lunch. Their food was usually whatever Mother had leftover from other meals but with the sizeable profit (despite Kadar’s sighing), there was more than enough to go find the food vendors that offered overpriced meals and treats to anyone too captivated by the performers and general atmosphere to realize they were being ripped off. 

Altair stood next to him in the center of the vendors and looked from one of their hastily decorated stalls to the next. “How do you choose?”

Malik shrugged. The smell of food was enticing but the oven-like heat of being in the center of so many bodies left him feeling nauseated. “Whatever you want. The baker usually has the best food and there’s a lot of it.” He motioned over toward that stall but the line that led away from it was far longer than he wanted to tolerate. “Widow Gillis also has good food,” he said. “And there’s almost no line.”

“Where’s your brother?” Altair asked. He looked around them and then back at Malik. “I thought he was right there.”

“He’s probably looking for the seamstress girl.” Malik grabbed Altair’s hand and pulled him forward. Caution made him hold onto his hood with his free hand as he went through the crush of bodies. Most of them didn’t seem to care about his existence (possibly because of the spectacle of the screaming suitors being dragged through the village to their designated holding cells). “Let’s find something to eat and go find somewhere with less people.”

Any other time and Altair might have made a comment about how Malik just wanted to get him alone, but it may not be well received given what had just occurred (and the fact that there was another day before the promised five day limit) so Altair kept it to himself as he lengthens his strides until he’s falling into step with Malik.

There was no real reason to keep holding hands once they were waiting in line, but Altair didn’t let go and Malik didnn’t ask him to.

As they waited, they discussed what they did or did not eat both as a way to pass time and so Malik knew what to buy. Malik avoided spicy food because it made him sweat more and that was intolerable. Altair, having learned the value of not being picky will, by his own admission, eat just about anything.

“Surely there must be _something_ you won’t eat.” Malik must keep his head down with so many people around, but his voice was laced with good humour and in response to it, Altair grinned.

“If it won’t kill me I’ll probably eat it.”

“Ha. I imagine you’d eat it just to prove that it won’t.”

They bought a few skewers of meat from Widow Gillis who asked after Malik and his family (after briefly staring at their joined hands). It still smelled wonderfully of smoke from the grill and the spice blend she used (a family secret that no amount of questioning will pry out of her) as they moved away from the stall.

It was Altair that pulled them away from the crowd. There was a big enough alley between two buildings for them to go through. There was a shallow brace of trees in the back of the buildings and Altair pulled him into those, head tipped back and eyes darting back and forth between the options. He motioned to a tree with the lowest branches of the set. “Do you think you can climb that?”

“Yes,” Malik said. He handed Altair his skewer and put his own into his mouth to free his hands. It had been a few years since he had climbed a tree but after a few false starts he managed to pull himself up. By the time he had a comfortable seat on the lowest branch thick enough to hold him, Altair was already lounging in the tree closest to him, one of his long legs swinging as he chewed on his lunch with the most obnoxious display of ease. “Shut up,” Malik said.

Altair smiled. He tipped his head to look through the trees and out toward the people milling around in the center of the vendors. “So the curse is real,” he said as if it truly had never believed in it. “That--what happened there, that’s what usually happens? And you’ve never taken advantage of it?”

“Usually I manage to limit it to one or two people.” Being in a crowd made that significantly more difficult. He took a bite of meat using the time it took to chew and swallow to think. “There was a man from the city who was visiting a few years ago, a brothel owner. He tried to convince me to go work for him. He said I could have the men and women of the city eating out of my hands if I so wanted.” He looked up and right at Altair, “I do not want it. It would be easy to take advantage of others using this cure, but ‘easy’ is not the same as ‘right’ and I would rather choose what is right over what is easy.”

“There are many men who would have happily used it for their own gain. Weaker men would have given in to the temptation.” After saying that, Altair did not laugh, but there was a smile lingering at the edge of his lips when he added, “And you would make a terrible prostitute.”

Malik grinned at the ridiculousness of the idea. Becoming a prostitute seemed like as far from ideal as he could imagine. While he had seen men and women naked before (primarily because of the curse) he hadn’t ever had the chance to touch anyone but his family in the whole of his life. The very idea of sex was a slow-burning heat in his gut that he’d tried to suffocate for years. “It’s a curse. What it does to people--what you saw wasn’t even that bad. I’ve had men sit outside my window serenading me. I had this woman who followed me around naked asking for me to consummate our spiritual marriage.”

Laughter interrupted him, Altair tipped his head back and laughed so loud it got caught in the trees and echoed back at them. He nearly fell out of the tree when he tipped to the side and managed to catch himself by tightening his knees around the branch and grabbing it with one hand. When he finished there was a dampness around his eyes from laughing so hard and red exertion spots on his cheeks. 

“It’s not really funny,” Malik said.

“No, it really shouldn’t be,” Altair said. Then he sighed. “So does it work better on men since you’re attracted to them? Are you attracted to men or are you just so excited that I’m not insane that you don’t care about my penis?”

“Uh,” Malik shrugged. There was no way Altair could know (and there was no reason his body needed to produce any more heat) but his face went suddenly flushed with heat. “The curse works on everyone. I think the women are just smart enough to not try to see me. The men--boys, they think it’s a game. Who can look at me and not be affected. I am attracted to men. What about you?”

“I’m attracted to both.” He took the last piece of meat into his mouth then tossed the stick away, careless of the reproachful sound Malik made at his actions. Altair swallowed before adding, as if imparting some great piece of wisdom, “But I am less likely to be chased by angry parents when I sleep with men.”

The casual way he said it made bitter jealousy well up in Malik’s chest, though he couldn’t tell if he was jealous of Altair (for being free to pursue relationships with other people) or of the people who slept with him. He took another bite of the meat to avoid having to comment and realized with a sudden jolt that he was being ridiculous.

“Now that you know the curse is real, do you still think you are unaffected by it?” He’d meant to preserve the easy atmosphere of their conversation. He didn’t mean to sound so quiet and defeated. He already knew it was most likely the curse (but Altair’s words had an annoying tendency to get under his skin, to make Malik _want_ and believe in a way he shouldn’t).

Altair did not reply immediately, and that was the worst part. It left Malik enough time to regret having asked the question at all before he sighed.

“You were more attractive to me than anyone else I had ever seen that day at the river.” He was not looking at Malik as he admitted it, “I have wasted uncountable hours of my life since then imagining what you would look like naked, what your skin would feel like under my fingers and what you’d sound like when I fucked you.”

The admission shouldn’t have evoked the sensation of dull-lust but it filled his body like radiant heat before he could fully process what he’d heard. He let out a gust of breath and Altair looked up when he heard the sound. Shame was a funny look on his face, it stole away the easy-handsome-confidence that usually made him attractive. 

“It’s different now,” Altair said before Malik could say anything. “I mean, it _was_ like that. It _was_ an intense feeling and it was _constant_ for the first day. I thought about how much I wanted you and how I could convince you to--” His words stuttered a half-breath as he licked his lips and cleared his throat. “But it’s not now. This curse? I don’t think it’s permanent. I mean, I want to have sex with you but it’s almost the same way I’d want anyone.”

“You wouldn’t know,” Malik said. He didn’t want to say it. (He didn’t _want_ any of the ridiculous bullshit that was just said to him. He wanted to go back a half hour to a world where hope was still a possibility.) “You wouldn’t know until the curse wore off how you feel and it doesn’t just--go away! It happens every time someone looks at me.”

Altair made a flat-frowning-face at that assertion. “I don’t see your brother trying to jump you. Your Mother doesn’t seem to want to marry you or lock you in a little cupboard in the kitchen. If the curse happens to everyone that looks at you then it happened to them too.”

“No it didn’t. They were immune because--”

“No they weren’t,” Altair said. “You want to know why I didn’t try to fuck you the first day? Because I actually care about you as a person. The second day? Because I knew you didn’t want. The third day, today? Because it matters to me that you understand what I feel isn’t a curse. It’s me. Ask your Mother, she’ll tell you that she wasn’t immune. She had this curse too once.”

The idea of asking his Mother was ludicrous. It would be questioning what he has known for years on the word of someone who didn’t even know about the curse a week ago. It would mean he believed that what Altair was saying was not only possible but _possibly true_.

The fact that Altair had not acted as his suitors typically did lent credence to what he was saying but Malik didn’t want to put his trust in something so precarious and against everything he has learned about his curse.

He picked at the fabric of his clothes with one hand while the other one held onto the skewer of meat he suddenly didn’t have the appetite to finish.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” He said and tried not to feel guilty at the frustration on Altair’s face. “We should go back to the cart, now.”

\--

The afternoon dragged. Kadar was cheery and inviting to the customers that idled along their way to or from events. A gaggle of children had gone running from the main square with excited shouts of a game that was being organized in one of the fields closest to the town. A bevy of women had stopped by to peruse the available stock and gawk at Kadar (who was not much to look at) and Altair (who did not look up from steadily glaring at his work) before they had to get back to take the stage and show off their six party harmony. 

“We’re making a lot of money,” Kadar said. There was no excitement in his voice. He was standing by the table as Malik rearranged the remaining pieces to put out the few new ones that were finished. They had nearly sold out of the ones available and had a few commissions for specific designs. “We probably shouldn’t close yet.”

If Malik were in a better mood he might have told Kadar they absolutely should not close yet. Instead he concentrated on the uncertain feeling of bitter disappointment (and residual hope) and the slick of sweat that had soaked through two layers of clothing. The sun was still beating mercilessly down on him and without good humor to ease the red rash of discomfort the layers of clothing brought him, Malik had no reason to want to stay. He said, ”let’s close. We’ve already made more money than we usually do.”

They were halfway through packing up shop with Constable Cherry strolled up with an approving nod. “Good, good,” he said. He made a whole motion at everything being packed away. Kadar smiled back reflexively but Altair rolled his eyes with his back turned to the man. “I was just coming over to see about this. It’s good you decided to pack it up.”

There was nothing at all Malik could say that would change Constable Cherry’s mind on the matter so he said nothing. It was what he had always done; it was only the anger that was different. If the sculptures didn’t have breakable glass on them he would have been tempted to throw them in to the box to relieve it. It wasn’t even just the Constable’s general attitude that said plainly that Malik was, at best, a pest where other people are involved, but a cumulation of all the things that had gone wrong today all stacked together. (And even those might have been bearable if not for the unhappy knowledge that Altair truly had not been immune this entire time.)

After the Constable left, Kadar busied himself with the tablecloths so Malik turned to Altair, “help me with the tables.”

They’d gotten the first table inside the cart when Altair said, “we should skip going to the bonfire.”

Malik wasn’t certain if he wanted to go anymore, but he hadn’t expected Altair to be the one to suggest they don’t go. He wasn’t quite sure what he meant to say (maybe it was, _I shouldn’t have thought about going to begin with_ ), but he stopped short at the look in Altair’s eyes. It was not the look of a man giving in to pressure. Abruptly, Malik was reminded that even if Altair helped with the dishes and was called an artist he had been an ass and a _thief_ , first.

“What do you suggest we do then?” He said, dropping his voice low because while he might be ready to allow himself to be pulled along with what Altair was planning, he wasn’t sure he wanted to involve his younger brother.

“Do you know where Constable Cherry lives?” Altair whispered. Malik nodded and Altair just smiled. 

Kadar came over to throw the table clothes in the cart with a growl of frustration. “I think the Constable was trying to be subtle when he was saying he didn’t want to see you at the festival anymore. What an ass. What are you going to do?”

Malik was watching Altair’s face, at the impressive impassive set of it that gave away nothing that had been making his smile wicked only a moment ago. Malik had the benefit of the hood to hide his expressions but no expectation that he could be so effective at hiding his thoughts any other way. He said, “we’re going to go swimming before it gets dark.”

“Oh,” Kadar said. “That’s good.” He just wasn’t sure what he really felt about it. “Do you mind if I go to the festival then?”

“No,” Malik said, “go. Maybe you can find one of those flowers to give that girl you’ve been trying to impress.” 

Altair rolled his eyes at that notion and picked up the last of the baskets to go back into the cart. “I think swimming sounds better.”

\--

“What are we doing here?”

‘Here’ being Silas’ chicken farm, which was apparently their first stop after parting ways with Kadar.

“Think of it as a supply run.” And that was apparently all the explanation Malik was getting because Altair was putting a hand on the fence to vault over it.

Malik stood indecisively at the edge of the property, his hands digging into the wood of the fence, because this was _trespassing_ and it was _illegal._

“Altair!” He hissed and in reply Altair only turned briefly to gesture for him to be quiet. It was hard to tell without being able to see his face properly in the dark, but Malik was almost certain Altair was laughing at him on the inside. Silas’ chicken coop was not difficult to spot even with the lack of light because it was large and painted entirely white (it was not good enough that the coop was merely functional for Silas, it also had to be easy on the eyes because his girls deserved the best).

He was still standing at the edge of the property until Altair made it to the building and started picking the lock. Then, after a furtive look around, Malik also climbed over the fence (without any of the easy grace that Altair did it with).

“A supply run for what?” Malik hissed at him. There was that to consider but more important was the fact that the door to Silas’ chicken coop had an anti-theft alarm made out of an elaborate hanging string of bells and other trash. Altair slid his hand up the door when he managed to get it up just a sliver. His hand was grasping at the tangle of noise makers. “There are easier eggs to get,” Malik said.

Altair had his tongue between his teeth as he maneuvered the alarm blindly on the inside of the door. After a tense matter of seconds he grinned (exactly like the thief he’d introduced himself as) before he pushed the door open. “These are the best eggs,” Altair said.

“This is stupid,” Malik mumbled. He stepped inside of the coop. In his experience, entering a chicken coop involved stepping in chickenshit and having to cover his nose to avoid the stomach-churning smell. It involved birds clucking angrily in his direction. It was not _this_ luxurious interior. The coop was cool, cleaned and in the center of the room was a wind-up music box playing soothing music. The hens were nestled in premium beds while gazing at a mural that had been painted with loving detail. Lesser birds looked at plain walls or knotty wood but Silas’ prized hens gazed out onto a serene grass wonderland with an attractive looking rooster gazing back at them with far more intent than Malik was comfortable attributing to a bird. “He’s going to kill us if he finds us here.”

Altair was shaking out a sack that he had produced from somewhere (hopefully his own pocket) before snorting. “Just don’t turn the music box off. That riles them up.” He slipped his hand up under the first hen and pulled out two eggs that he gently put into his bag. “Not that I would know from personal experience,” he said. 

“Of course not.” Malik said in a deadpan that clearly stated he did not believe Altair at all. “if we are arrested you are explaining to Mother what happened.” 

Altair only waved him off as he moved on to the next hen, “Please. As if I’d get caught. No one will even know we were here.”

“Because you were so successful last time?” He asked sarcastically and it was meant to be acerbic, it wasn’t supposed to make Altair’s mouth quirk up in a smirk. Malik let out a sigh. It was obvious that there was no dissuading the fool, so he leaned back against the wall and watched, trying to ease the knot of anxiety at the possibility of being caught stealing eggs. “I’m just saying that we will never hear the end of this if we are caught. And I’m not even exaggerating. There’s this guy who poked one of Silas’ hens with a stick when he was a child and Silas still gives him grief over it and it’s been nearly eight years. I don’t want to be hearing about how we stole his eggs and aggravated his _precious girls_ years from now.”

“Then help me so we’ll get out of here sooner.” Then Altair pretended to reconsider, “on second thought, maybe you should just watch the door and leave this to the professional.”

“Ha.” Malik said under his breath.

“But if he shows up, take your hood off. I’m curious to see if the curse is stronger than his love for these chickens.” 

Malik was most definitely not going to be doing that but he did stand in the doorway and keep an eye out for Silas’ return. It seemed most likely that he would be at the festival. Even if he were overprotective of his chickens, he should have been at ease knowing that everyone in the town was at the bonfire or on their way into the forest to find those stupid flowers. He was leaning against the doorframe (thinking highly uncharitable thoughts about how Silas had the ability to looking through the forest for flowers to give his _damned_ chickens and Malik was a social pariah that had never given one of the stupid things ever. The ones that he had been given were gifts from cursed suitors trying to prove their worth and were therefore irrelevant). 

“Let’s go,” Altair said. He pushed both of his hands against Malik’s back with a sudden rush of motion. They were stumbling out of the coop with Altair turning around and reaching up inside the door to expertly (but loudly) reattach the alarm before closing the door. His smile was exhausting when he grabbed Malik’s hand and pulled him away from the coop to jog (slowly, really) toward the fence. “Which way to Constable Cherry’s house?”

It hadn’t occurred to him (exactly) that the eggs they were stealing were going to be used for vengeance until Altair was going over the fence and staring at him still standing in Silas’ field. The fact was, Malik had never purposefully broken a law in his life. Too much of his time had been spent trying to go unnoticed to ever think of things like throwing eggs at the Constable’s house. (Oh but now that he thought of it, a whole list of the reasons he should came through his mind like an endless repeat of today’s events.) “I’ll show you,” Malik said. Then he climbed over the fence and dropped on the other side. 

The Constable’s house was far closer to the center of town than Silas’. While it was in the direct path for the festival goers to find them with ease, it was most definitely in the same general vicinity of the noise. The roar of the fire and the excited voices was audible. The drifting din of music from the bands that were planning slithered around the buildings between them and the source. Altair looked up at the magnificent two-story house with the eggshell-blue shutters and the brilliant yellow door. The trim was freshly painting and the windows had been scrubbed clean by local boys caught committing minor offenses. Altair snorted at it and dug his hand into the bag to hold out the first egg to him. “Take your gloves off, you’ll throw better.”

“It’s a house. It’s not going to move and it’s large enough it shouldn’t matter how well I throw.” There were certain levels of irresponsibility that even now he will not stoop to (even if during the course of the night he was first an accomplice to theft and now a vandal). He took the egg from Altair and gave the building a critical look. For all the (many) reasons he could think of for why he wanted to do this, he wasn’t entirely convinced he _would_ , not until the moment the egg that had been in his hand broke on the side of the Constable’s house with a wet _crack_.

He stood there for a moment, with his arm still outstretched. The part of him that had spent years trying to be as well-behaved and unobtrusive to anyone’s life as was possible cringed, but the feeling was short lived. The greater part of him (the one that remembered being hauled home at thirteen and having to suffer through the Constable explaining to his Mother why Malik was a menace to good, sane people and should be kept at home permanently), felt a flush of mean-spirited _vindication_.

He was still high on the feeling when another egg splattered against the house, hitting one of the shutters. It was Altair who threw it and, looking very pleased with himself, he held out the bag so Malik could reach into it. “There’s more where that came from.”

Instead of replying, Malik took two more eggs, one in each hand.

By the time the bag was empty the front of the house was a mess and, oh, Malik was smiling at the thought of what Constable Cherry would think when he returned to see egg dripping down his walls-windows-and-shutters and what it will do to the paint beneath.

It was Altair who grabbed him by the hand and dragged him away from the scene of the crime. “For someone who doesn’t want to be caught you sure stand around a lot.” 

There was nothing about what they just did that wasn’t immature, irresponsible and _stupid_ , but there was nothing at all that could wipe the smile from Malik’s face as they ran through the streets hand in hand.

\--

There was no expectation that they would go home but Malik didn’t think that they would end up rolling to a stop at the end of an unseen hill into a shallow pile of leaves in the middle of the forest. He was laughing and Altair was trying to untangle his arms and legs from Malik’s. He had hit his head and the faint red of a smear of blood from the scrape was visible under the bright white of the moon. 

For a half-second, Altair was leaning over him with Malik’s back flat to the ground and their faces close enough together that anyone might have thought they were going to kiss. (Malik thought it, like holding his breath.) Then Altair pushed himself back and sat next to him with a huff of breath. “The forest looks different after dark. I didn’t remember the ground just stopping.” He shook the debris out of his short hair and picked it off his clothes. 

Malik sighed and looked up through the little gaps in the leaves of the trees. He grabbed Altair by the arm and pulled him back down so he was lying next to him. The rustle of underbrush gentled into a hushed silence as they lay there looking up at the moon. 

“Tell me about this flower, and the Summer Lady. What was she?” Altair asked.

It was a stupid legend that they’d built a tradition on. “Probably an elf or a spirit. Some of the people used to call her a fairy but then this,” he motioned at his whole body, “happened. Most of the people in the town don’t really find fairies to be so mystical or attractive anymore. They think they’re pests. But elves, nobody’s ever seen an elf to know if they are real or not. The Summer Lady planted the flowers in this one spot in the forest. She wanted to give them to the man she loved. I guess he wasn’t very happy but she died? He died? Something happened that kept her from giving the flowers to him.”

“So there’s an entire festival devoted to this?”

Malik snorted. He turned his head to look at Altair and Altair rolled onto his side to look at him. The motion pressed them together all along one side and Malik forgot (just for a moment) what he was saying. “You’re supposed to get the flowers and give them to the person you love before it’s too late,” Malik said. “It’s romantic because the flowers are hard to find and they wilt quickly once they’ve been picked.”

There is a hand on his elbow. Malik had missed it earlier because the touch was so light it was almost indiscernible through all the layers he wore. The realization was sufficiently distracting that he almost (just almost) missed it when Altair asked, “Have you ever given one away?”

“No. I tried looking for one for Mother when I was little. I didn’t realize it was supposed to be romantic love or that most people thought it was supposed to bring happiness in matrimony.” His confusion had been furthered by the fact that Silas made it his mission to go searching for the flowers every year and, as far as Malik knew, the man had no intentions of marrying one of his hens.

“Did you find one?”

Malik shook his head and the leaves under his head rustled with the movement. “I looked everywhere but I couldn’t find any.”

He watched the way Altair pushed himself up onto his elbow then leaned over to pick a piece of leaf that had gotten into his hood when they fell. Malik followed the path his hand took until it went out of focus and if Altair’s hand lingered a touch longer than necessary neither of them commented on it.

“Your brother said you’ve received them before.”

Malik made a face at him, “those don’t count.” Because they _don’t_ , not when he didn’t actually mean anything to the gifters when the curse was gone.

“Would it count if I gave it to you?” There was a flash of regret in Altair’s expression after the words left his mouth, as if he hadn’t meant to ask the question at all (because it seemed whenever this particular subject came up they always argued).

It was too late in the evening for arguments, not after the excitement of the day and night combined. When Malik spoke, his voice was hushed and resigned.

“I want it to.”

Altair nodded to match the wistful jerk in Malik’s chest at the words. The curse had made fools out of men that swore their feelings were real. There was every reason in the world to think that by morning Altair would be finished with him and the lingering infatuation that he had. “Well, next year,” Altair said.

Malik smiled (and wished he hadn’t) because promises were frightful things that were made (frequently) and never kept. He couldn’t count the number of impassioned pleas that he’d heard over the years. From his teacher at the school who swore she’d wait for him to become a man to the endless parade of foolish men who were simply too stupid to listen when they were told not to look begging him for a chance to kiss his hand. They were fools on their knees swearing they would be satisfied with just that kiss. “You think you’ll still be here next year?” he said.

“You think I won’t?” His fingers were busy now, plucking debris off Malik’s clothes. Working their way across from his shoulders to the center of his chest where the heavy buttons held his clothes in place. 

“Not if you make a habit of stealing Silas’ eggs to throw at the Constable’s house.” The statement was meant to be a warning but not an invitation. Regardless of his intent, Altair had worked free two of his buttons while Malik laid there and let it happen. The curl of heat that wrapped up in his gut was more _real_ and _pressing_ than anything he’d ever felt before. “Do you really believe this isn’t the curse?”

Altair finished the line of buttons all the way down the front of his body. The outer layer was the longest and heaviest, meant to keep the layers beneath it from shifting or gaping in such a way as to show his skin. “I really believe that I want to kiss you because it’s what _I_ want. And,” he looked down at his hand and Malik got up on his elbows to watch as Altair wormed his fingers under the layers (and layers) of his shirts to find the sweat-soaked skin of his belly. In comparison to the trapped heat, Altair’s fingers were chilly. “I really believe you’re a saint because holy fuck, how many shirts are you wearing?” He sat up entirely and started lifting the layers one at a time, counting them out as he went. “One-two-three! Four. You’re insane, there’s _more_! I didn’t even count this top thing.” 

Laughter bubbled up from Malik’s chest at the almost comical look of dismay Altair was wearing as he pinched all the layers between thumb and forefinger to check their combined thickness. He was still shaking with mirth when he fell back against the leaves again, laughing so hard he couldn’t be bothered to keep himself up.

“No, seriously.” Altair started (even though he didn’t sound the least bit serious) as his hand abandoned Malik’s clothing in favour of touching his skin, feeling the way his stomach heaved with each laugh that escaped, “it’s been so hot. _I_ felt hot and I’m not even wearing half as much clothing as you.”

Malik squirmed and shivered when Altair’s hand pushed higher, baring some of his skin to the cooler night air when his shirts rode up with the motion. “I hate summer.” Though he hoped he could remember this one fondly in the future, “I basically hate any season that isn’t winter.”

“I can’t imagine why.” This was said wryly and Malik craned his neck to look down at his body because he felt the words fan over his bared skin. All he saw was the top of Altair's head but felt the moment he pressed a kiss to his stomach. 

It was embarrassing how his body shivered at that touch. It was _humiliating_ (really, maybe) the way it felt like nothing in the world mattered quite as much as that brief touch of lips against his bare skin. It wasn’t that Malik had lived an existence without the notion of sex, it was simply that the closest he’d ever gotten was manual stimulation in his pitch-black-bedroom imagining approximately nothing. His fingers threaded through Altair’s hair and he wasn’t even sure if it was because he wanted to stop-or-encourage him. The hand that was under his clothes was hiking his shirts up higher, rolling the thick layers until they were caught along his ribs. Altair’s fingers dragged across his skin until they found his nipple and the amused sound that Altair made against his belly only just preceded the pinch of his thumb and forefinger around the hardened flesh. 

“Stop that,” Malik said. He shoved Altair’s grinning face away from him but he didn’t want him to go. 

Altair moved back (only for show) before twisting his body around and swinging one leg across Malik’s body to rest on his knees over him. Both of his hands were gritty with dirt from pressing to the ground when they spread across his belly. The moonlight was bright enough to make out his pleased smile and the little streak of blood that ran down from his forehead to his cheek. “Stop which part?” he asked. He pulled one of Malik’s shirts back down to start working on the buttons while he asked. “Touching you? Kissing you? Pinching you?” He shifted on his knees in a way that seemed unnecessary in the brief seconds before the pressure of his body settled with _knowing_ intent over Malik’s hard dick. Altair was smirking again and he threw open the layers of Malik’s shirt before he started on the next one. 

Malik had something he wanted to say but his hands were gripping at Altair’s thighs (amazed, for a brief second, at how muscled his body was under his clothes) with a half-expressed thought squeaking out of his throat. It was an awful idea to let this continue but he was having trouble remembering why it was so bad. “Teasing,” he said after he dragged in a breath.

The sound Altair made was not a promise to stop as his continued to unbutton Malik’s shirt from the bottom up, pressing kisses over the spaces where the shirt parted to bare skin. The air was dry and cool, but Altair’s hands were hot as they mapped out the expanse of his chest and abdomen when they were finished with his shirt instead of pulling down the next layer immediately.

He probably looked ridiculous with his torso bared and two layers of shirt spread out to his side while more were still rolled up under his arm. But that was not why he flushed when Altair stared down at him. Being stared at was a feeling Malik had long grown used to but never in his life had someone looked at him as if they couldn’t bear to look away. No other person in his life (not the suitors who had brought him ludicrous gifts or the ones who had promised everything for the chance to touch him) had ever made him feel as _wanted_ as he was in this moment.

That he didn’t want it to (ever) end was a revelation that came to him with a sudden jolt. He wanted to wake up tomorrow and know that Altair would still look at him like this (he wanted to wake up every morning knowing that). 

Some of what he was thinking must have been reflected on his face because the grin dropped from Altair’s face and his hands stopped their teasing slide up Malik’s sides.

“Malik--”

“Thank you.” Malik said because it had to be said _now_ while he could be sure it still meant something to Altair. His own hands, which were still resting on Altair’s thighs slid up and over Altair’s back, “thank you for everything. I--” There were no words (or too many) to convey everything he felt and the way his life had changed since Altair stole his way into his world. He gave up instead and pulled Altair insistently down, “kiss me?” 

The truth was that Altair had not taken the appropriate amount of time to consider what would happen if he were wrong. In general, he was not in the habit of considering the impossible. (And it seemed impossible that this feeling of fondness that filled up his chest and the urgent desire for this man would be anything but authentic.) If it were only his own life (and heart, really) he would not have bothered to second guess himself. 

He was out of the habit of taking the appropriate amount of time to think things through. He had never been very good at the long-term implications of short-term satisfactions. It was _unfair_ to him that this random person had come along and interrupted the life of nothing he’d made. (Had it really only been four days?) Altair licked his lips as he nodded and leaned down so his weight was resting on his elbows pressed into the soft dirt on either side of Malik’s shoulders. His fingers brushed through Malik’s hair as he smiled (without arrogance but with the very most sincere wish that this would not be lost in the morning). “No matter what happens,” he said, “don’t give up again. You _deserve_ better than you’ve gotten. Fight for it.” Then he kissed Malik. 

Malik’s hands were under his arms, pulling on his back and he was pressing back into the kiss with a quiet need to hang onto this moment. It was the perfect culmination of everything Altair had been hoping for and it would have been so-very-terribly-ease to throw common sense to the wayside and indulge what they both wanted.

“We have to wait,” Altair said when he tipped his head back. “I don’t want to wait.” He pressed his forehead against Malik’s with his eyes closed. “But I need you to believe this is what I want and you won’t if we don’t wait.”

Malik huffed a sigh like a sad laugh. His hands were working their way under Altair’s shirt (far less cumbersome than any of Malik’s clothes) to run his gloves down his back. They were smooth as real skin from how worn they were. “But tomorrow, you’ll stop starting something we can’t finish right?”

Altair leaned back far enough to smile (arrogantly) at him. “Oh tomorrow we start making up for everything you’ve been missing.”

Instead of asking for a promise (even jokingly), Malik only gave a nod. He drew an idle circle with his fingers over Altair’s back before pulling them away reluctantly.

“We can stay out here. It’s warm enough and the trolls don’t actually come past the river.” It felt like a lifetime ago when he told Altair not to get himself eaten. The memory brought a small smile to his face and he slid his hands up Altair’s back to smooth over his hair. “I don’t want to go back yet.” It was more that he’d rather not sleep in his own room, in his own bed (by himself). He’d rather be here, lingering in this moment for as long as he could.

“As long as your mom doesn’t come after me with a frying pan in the morning.” Altair said as he climbed off of Malik to lay down beside him on his side. 

“I don’t think you need to worry about that. I think she likes you.”

Malik sat up long enough to fix his clothes, taking off the heavy outer layer to drape over both of them like a blanket. He lay down on his side and it was hard to tell if Altair was the one dragging him closer or he was the one wriggling close because they did it almost at the same time.

There was barely a hand’s span worth of distance between them when they finally settled. Malik was torn between wanting to be closer still, so that he could feel the length of Altair’s body pressed against his or to stay where he was, where he could watch Altair’s face a while longer. Altair reached out and cupped his cheek, brushing over his cheekbone with a laugh.

“Has anyone told you that you think too much?”

Malik scoffed as he rested his hand on the Altair’s hip. “And you--” He yawned, “--do not think enough.” There was no heat in the words, and it wasn’t long before his eyes started drooping. The way Altair’s thumb kept tracing over his cheek in even strokes did nothing but pull him closer towards sleep.

“Sleep, Malik. I will be here when you wake up.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason for the rating of this story. Have fun.

“Hey.”

Malik’s least favorite part of the entire day was the part where he had to wake up. In the time before that he wasn’t worried about what unfortunate circumstances would occur in the day. He wasn’t wearing a dozen layers of clothing and he was _asleep_. Waking up meant coming to terms with having to be _awake_ and sleep was a comfortable (cool) dark void of thought and responsibility. 

“Wake up.”

No. Malik might have said as much but before he could manage it (and wonder why everything smelled like damp leaves and dirt) he was abruptly pushed onto his back. He opened his eyes enough to squint through the dim light and brought his hands up to try to hold off the sudden motion. Altair crawled up over his body with a sweet kiss to his confused snarling mouth. “Why are you waking me up?” 

“Two things,” Altair said. His busy hands were invading Malik’s clothes (again, _already_ ) to start pulling at buttons again. “It’s morning and I still want to strip you naked. It’d be nice if you were awake for that but not necessary.” He interrupted himself (and his progress at fulfilling what was apparently his greatest desire) to kiss Malik again. The gesture was not entirely unwanted even if it were disruptive to his attempts to sleep. “The second thing is,” Altair said. “I got you something.”

“Is it your dick?” Malik mumbled, “because if it is I want to go back to sleep.” He forced his eyes open all the way and even managed to sit up far enough to watch Altair lean away from him to pick up a pot (one that look like it had been stolen from Frances Stanford’s garden) and then hand it to him. Very, very carefully planted in the center of the pot (on a bed of dark, soft forest dirt) was one of the delicate flowers that dragged countless romantic-minded men and women into the forest every year. The flower was closed in the daylight but not wilted from being plucked.

Malik stared until his sleep-fogged mind caught up and managed to make sense of what he was seeing. The first thing he blurted out was, “do you even sleep?” as he reached out hesitantly to take the offered pot. It was a not insignificant weight in his hands, but despite that, despite the fact that it was _solid_ and _real_ , Malik wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t still dreaming (oh, but if he was then he’d rather not wake up yet). “I thought we were waiting for next year.”

“I don’t like waiting.” As if to punctuate that point, Altair leaned in to claim Malik’s lips again in a kiss. “And I sleep enough. You’re just lazy.”

“I am not.” Malik’s response was instinctive, without much thought put into it. He was holding onto the flower pot in his hands with a tight grip that only now started to gradually relax. “It’s morning.”

Altair’s smirked at him, “You’re very intelligent when you’ve just woken up, you know that?” He carefully extracted the flower pot from Malik’s hands and set it to the side. Malik’s fingers twitched, hovering uncertainly before he settled them on Altair’s forearms. “Yes, it’s morning. Yes, I’m still here and I still want you.” Altair pressed their foreheads together, “this isn’t the curse. It’s me. Can we get to the part where I get you naked, now?”

Malik laughed, but it was weak and his eyes were suspiciously bright. The words and the sentiments Altair was conveying were not new, but the knowledge that they were _true_ , that he could have this was almost overwhelming. His hands slid up Altair’s arms and over his shoulders to tangle in Altair’s hair.

There had been some intention (or just pure imagination) that kissing would happen but Altair tipped his head down as his hands dropped into the space between their bodies to (once again) start pulling open Malik’s buttons. He was halfway done with one when he glanced up at Malik (and most likely correctly divined that he had ruined a perfectly good moment) and grinned with a half-hearted shrug. 

“Trust me, you’ll thank me for taking the time to do this now.” 

Malik grabbed the shirts that were already undone and pulled them away from his chest to shake them off his arms. Then he caught the bottom of the remaining few layers and pulled them and the cowl up over his head (and managed not to get them caught on his ears) before dropping them to the side. His left glove was pulled off by the long sleeves but he had to grab the right one and drop it to the side. 

“But how many pairs of pants are you wearing?” Altair asked. He pulled his own shirt off and dropped it to the side as well. As soon as his hands were free, they were running across Malik’s skin. He was staring at his (unimpressive) shoulders and chest, running his fingers down his back and up again with a look of pink-lust and general-awe. “It’s just one right?”

“Two,” Malik corrected. Then he put his hands on Altair’s face to pull him forward and kiss him. Wearing gloves since he was a child had given his hands an unfortunate tenderness to rough textures. Altair’s cheeks were covered in yesterday’s stubble and it scratched at his palms in a way that tingled up his arms and shivered down his chest. Altair’s arms tightened around his back as he leaned his body forward and pushed Malik down against the dirt. He landed on top of the pile of his shirts (and didn’t care). Altair made the whole motion of moving from straddling his lap to fitting himself between Malik’s thighs seamless and easy in a way made the slow-building lust in his gut become suddenly unbearable. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Altair said after plucking at the waistband of Malik’s pants as if he didn’t really believe he was wearing two. “How is this even comfortable?”

He didn’t seem very interested in an answer (he was more preoccupied with the way Malik’s muscles twitched and jumped when his hands skated over the inside of his thighs), but Malik gave one anyway, “It’s not.”

The way Altair leaned over to kiss his chest and move steadily down his body as his hands kneaded Malik’s thighs was purposeful in a way that contrasted with how Malik wasn’t sure where to even put his hands. His hands were still fisted uselessly in the fabrics he was lying on when Altair paused at his navel, to bite and suck at patch of skin. The way his hands smoothed up Malik’s thighs to hook his fingers under his waistband made Malik’s breath stutter with anticipation.

Altair’s mouth thinned into a grin against his skin and all he does is pull back enough to blow on the damp patch of skin he had been worrying. Then he stopped and looked up at Malik and he could have kicked him right then.

“What are you waiting for?” The breathless demand was followed by Malik pushing his hands against Altair, trying to prompt him back into doing something besides watching him with that damnable grin.

Rather than answer, Altair tugged at his waistband and it slid down along his hip on the right side. His mouth dropped open in a great mockery of surprise before he looked down at the freshly bared skin (tingling now that it had been exposed to the cool air). His body dipped forward again as he kissed this new sliver of exposed skin. 

The sound that Malik made was imminently embarrassing but Altair’s teeth scraping across his overly-sensitive skin seemed to appreciate it. Everything felt too overwhelming in a way that seemed _ridiculous_. It wasn’t as if Malik hadn’t ever been aroused, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t ever--and yet, Altair’s pulling his pants down just a fraction lower and dropping infrequent kisses over the newly exposed skin felt (all at once) too _much_. Malik was dragging his hand through Altair’s hair and gripping at his arm just above the elbow. Confused about whether he wanted to keep going or stop. 

(He wanted to keep going, he just wasn’t sure he’d survive it.)

“Hey,” Altair said. He lifted himself up so he was face-to-face with Malik again. “It’s okay.” It was possible that Malik was aware he was shivering before Altair said that but it seemed like a revelation. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Malik said. He ran his hands down Altair’s back until he reached the waist of his pants and slid his fingers under it even as his heart gave a sudden lurch at his boldness. Altair was smiling at him though. “Stop smiling at me.” The words were undercut by how his hands seemed to have developed their own ideas about what to do. His hands were tightening around Altair’s (incredibly firm) ass and pulling him down. His body was skinny and slim but _perfect_ when Altair let himself be pulled low enough to press against him from hip to chest. 

“Like that?” Altair whispered against his cheek. (Malik wasn’t even aware he’d closed his eyes.) Altair shifted above him until he was on his elbows and started rocking his body. “I forgot you were a virgin. How about we get this first orgasm out of the way?”

“Oh, fuck.” Was the most intelligent thing that came out of his mouth in response.

The hardening state of his dick had been a peripheral concern with Altair’s mouth and hands as distractions. Now, as Malik threw his head back with a gasp, nothing was as important as the pressure of Altair’s body rocking down against him. There was nothing teasing in the way Altair moved now and everything was a thought-scrambling sensation that stole his breath and made the world seem to narrow down to a point and it was _not enough_. It was instinct, not reason that had Malik’s hands pulling at Altair’s ass as he swore again. When it did little but make Altair chuckle (a little breathlessly), Malik’s hand moved back up to make room for him to hook his leg over Altair’s waist so he could arch up more easily when Altair rolled his hips down.

He missed the timing on the first attempt, but his second had him choking back a moan.

The simple fact that there was another person should not have made such a difference, but the fact that he could hear Altair breathe above him, the way the muscles under his hands moved and shifted with each motion Altair made, the simple touch of his hands combing back Malik’s hair, made everything that much more _intense_.

Altair had woken up before dawn with a persistent erection and a headful of ideas about what he wanted to do with Malik. He’d gone looking for the damned flower just to kill time (and his own eagerness to declare himself officially free of the curse). Traveling halfway through the forest and back had given him what he felt was ample time to think over every filthy way he planned to debauch Malik and none of them had been so simple. 

Yet, there he was, ducking his head to suck little pink marks into his neck while Malik’s fingers dug into the meat of Altair’s lower back and his legs hitched up on his hips to pull him down harder against his own body. Altair shifted his weight to his left elbow to shimmy his hand down between their bodies and wiggle under the waistband(s) of Malik’s pants. His hand was dirty and rough as he closed his fist around Malik’s dick. 

“Oh,” Malik said. 

Altair kissed him again. It was a sloppy, distracted thing because Altair was pulling his dick free of his pants and shifting his body so his belly was dragging up the length of it when he rocked his body. His thumb ran across the head of it and Malik dug his nails into Altair’s skin anywhere he could manage. He didn’t shout out in surprise but nearly stopped breathing as his head tipped back and his body arched up. His knees were tight-as-hell around Altair’s hips but nothing was as spectacular as watching Malik experience the glorious revelation of (something akin to) sex. 

“Good?” Altair asked when Malik was collapsed back in place. 

‘Good’ was not the word Malik would have chosen. ‘Good’ was not inaccurate but did not even scratch the surface of what Malik felt about what just occurred.

But Malik wasn’t interested in higher order thinking when he was still soupy in the aftermath of his orgasm (and felt like he needed to reteach his lungs what it meant to _breathe_ normally). So he just dragged himself up to kiss Altair, before he fell back down with a thump and a distracted (but also thoroughly contented) hum. “Good.”

Altair pushed himself up to simply admire the way Malik’s skin was still flushed and the marks on his neck that will undoubtedly darken into bruises. He was secretly pleased by the thought that he was the first to bring Malik to this point (probably the first person who wasn’t a blood relative to know what he looked like with all his layers stripped away).

When Malik cracked open his eyes again, he frowned (so maybe it hadn’t been much of a secret after all).

“What are you smiling about?” The words were, at best, a half-hearted grumble, devoid of any real heat. It made Altair’s smile widen as he leaned back down to kiss Malik unhurriedly.

When they parted, Malik looked down at the space between their bodies, at Altair’s erection still straining against his pants. He licked his lips absentmindedly as he rubbed his hands over Altair’s shoulders.

“Do you want me to…?”

Altair was indecisive, not because he didn’t want an orgasm but he wasn’t sure if he wanted an orgasm more than he wanted to let Malik relish a little longer in his moment. Pure selfishness (supported by the half-thought that Malik would be offended if denied the opportunity) motivated him to nod. It was universally true that it was easier and quicker to just undress yourself than to let your lover do it (although most of his lovers hadn’t been burdened with the need to undress) so he sat back on his knees to hike his pants down. 

The air that felt gentle and warm on his back felt fiercely cool on his dick. (Most things did, really.) He grabbed Malik’s pants where they were stuck around his thighs and dragged them off his legs. There was a moment of pause when he had to fight with his boot (just the one) before he could get them off. Then he leaned forward again, balanced himself on his arms while Malik’s hands found their way to his skin again. 

“What do you want me to do?” Malik asked.

It was not a difficult question. Altair had spent enough time thinking about the question these last couple of days that the only real problem was choosing one from the many things he had fantasized about. The way Malik's hand trailed from Altair's shoulders to loosely cup his neck and caress the shell of his ears with his thumb helped him make a decision.

"Use your hands." Altair turned his head to press a kiss to Malik's palm, "I like your hands."

He liked how soft they were, admired their steadiness and efficiency when doing work (or just bandaging inconsequential injuries).

It was clear though, from the expression on Malik’s face that he didn’t understand what Altair found so interesting about them. Still, after pulling Altair down for a brief kiss, he didn’t hesitate to let his hand drift down to grasp Altair’s dick.

“Like this?” He asked, close enough that their lips brushed when he spoke. This, at least, he has some experience with so he didn’t feel as out of his depth. His experience though, was limited to himself, and he suddenly needed to know how to reduce Altair to incoherence. “Tell me what you like.”

“Harder.” And Altair’s smile bordered on arrogance as he reached down to cover Malik’s hand to show him the pressure he liked, groaning when Malik eagerly absorbed the lesson.

While he did not have the excuse of having gone the whole of his life without any sort of meaningful touch, Altair had the benefit of spending days (and days) in a constant state of arousal that would have driven a lesser man insane. All of his willpower went into not pushing into Malik’s hands and therefore there was nothing left for any other purpose. He pressed his forehead to Malik’s chest and attempted something like a laugh when that prompted Malik to say, “I can’t see.”

“You don’t have to see,” Altair said back.

But Malik pushed at him until they were rolling over. Altair was on his back in forest debris with only one of the thinner shirts to protect him while Malik was sitting across his legs. Upright, the concentration on his face was even more attractive (if somewhat out of proportion for the task). He used both his hands on Altair’s dick, as tight as he liked it, so that it made an endless sensation. The corner of his mouth quirked up when Altair groaned and his tongue peeked out to lick at his lips when Malik looked up to see Altair rubbing his own chest with one of his hands. “Yeah?” Malik said. 

Altair could have nodded but the way his hips bucked up against Malik’s hands was answer enough in the last few seconds before he groaned out a shallow warning and came all over Malik’s (amazingly competent) hands. While it wasn’t the orgasm he’d imagined (over and over) it was very nearly the most amazing one he’d ever experienced.

Malik wiped his hands absent-mindedly on one of the shirts. He was smiling and less self-conscious than he expected to be when he asked, “Was that everything you hoped it would be?”

“Not _everything_.” Altair’s answering grin promised all sorts of filthy things before he dragged Malik down to kiss him sweetly, “but we have time.”

“We do.” The thought was still a light feeling that made his chest swell. He imagined it will not be so when it sunk in, when the idea of Altair not leaving was no longer a fresh realization but an accepted comfort. For now it still made him feel buoyant and warm.

It was still early (as far as Malik was concerned) and he rolled off Altair with a sigh and stretched out beside him. “We should get cleaned up and go back.”

Malik’s eyes were closed so he heard and felt the way Altair dragged him closer rather than saw it. “But I like having you naked.” He had his chin propped on Malik’s shoulder and when Malik opened his eyes, the fool was grinning.

Deciding that the comment was too asinine for a response, Malik only kicked him (half-heartedly).

\--

The decision to forgo putting back on all the layers of his clothing was made simpler by the fact that a majority of the layers were soiled by debris or bodily fluids. He was dressed (in his estimation) approximately the same as any other man on a leisurely stroll through the woods toward the nearest river. Altair had graciously offered to carry half of the clothes that Malik wasn’t wearing and had even managed not to make a spectacle out of the weight of them. 

They were only supposed to wash themselves up so they were presentable at the breakfast table but Altair was lithe and naked, dripping water out of his hair as he groaned enthusiastically about the joy of being _clean_. Malik was half-shivering in the cold of the water (it had been possibly years since he was fully naked in the water) watching Altair make a show out of scooping water up to pour down his chest. 

It was insanity (not logic) that made Malik swim over to him. It was giddy lust that led to him kissing the water drops off Altair’s smug grin. Altair slid his arms around Malik and used that mediocre bit of height advantage he had to make Malik tip his head back. The kiss was sweet but oh so very lewd at the same time. If asked a week ago if Malik were capable of feeling or sustaining any meaningful amount of lust, (theoretically, enough to generate physical arousal), for a prolonged period of time he would have assumed they were insane. But there he was slipping his body up against Altair’s, feeling the greedy lust echoed in his body. 

“What about breakfast?” Malik asked (stupidly, considering he didn’t even care himself) when Altair pushed him toward the bank of the river. The grass that grew there was mossy and sticky but the squish of the muddy ground was hardly worthy of note when Altair was kissing the water off his skin from his neck to his navel. “Oh,” he said to the top of Altair’s head and the hand that curled around his dick. “It can wait,” he said to nobody in general in the last few seconds before Altair tipped his head just enough that Malik could see his smirk before he dragged his quick pink tongue over his kiss-red lips. 

Malik had no clear expectations of what he wanted to happen now (nothing beyond the pleasing notion that it would end in another orgasm), so he breathed in sharply when Altair, still stroking his dick, kissed the tip before taking it into his mouth.

The first, instinctive rise of his hips was halted by Altair’s hand (the one not occupied with lazily stroking him), holding him down.

The way Altair’s mouth licked and sucked over him was a novel sensation that had Malik panting with needy little sounds falling from his lips whenever Altair took him in deep. It wasn’t even just the newness or even how fucking perfect Altair’s mouth was. It was also Altair, and the pleased sounds he was making as he sucked Malik’s dick. 

“A--” He stumbled over the first syllable of Altair’s name as he threw his head back with a groan. His hands found their way to the back of Altair’s head and he doesn’t know what he wants to do. All he knows is that if Altair doesn’t stop he’s going to come. “ _Altair._ ”

All at once it didn’t matter what his intentions were because Altair took the stutter of his name as encouragement and his efforts redoubled as he took Malik deep into his mouth. There was simply no stopping himself from coming (and why would he even want to). The pleasure of it was thick and exhausting but the insistent way that Altair kept stroking him even after it was through, the way he sucked at the head of Malik’s dick sent quivers through his body that were a confusion of good-and-bad. 

“Stop it,” Malik said. He pushed at Altair’s shoulders to get him off and then worked his hands up under his arms to pull him upward. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss Altair (considering where his mouth had been) but Altair settled the indecision by licking his lips with an exaggeration of approval. “You’re ridiculous,” Malik said.

“Am I?” Altair asked. He settled low against Malik’s body like he had every intention of staying there indefinitely. He didn’t try to kiss him but stroked the damp hair over his ears and considered the statement. “But consider,” he said with a philosophical kind of tone, “we have to go back to your Mother’s house and when she’s talking to us about her plans for the day and how you should buy some fat piglets or something, you’ll be staring at my mouth and thinking about how I sucked your dick.”

Well that was just evil.

“And when I’m telling her how delicious her food is and how it’s the second best thing I’ve had to eat all day, you’ll be turning red thinking about--”

There was simply no reason not to push both of his hands against Altair’s smug face and shove him bodily backward. He did it with such force that Altair was tipped all the way back into the water and landed with a resounding splash that covered him entirely for a matter of seconds before he managed to get back up to his knees in the water. When he resurfaced he was _laughing_. 

“You--stop laughing!”

Since he his back was already a mess of grass and mud, there was nothing stopping Malik from taking a handful of the wet turf and throwing it at Altair. Malik did it again when Altair only laughed harder. His first throw went wide but the second hit its mark, landing against Altair’s chest with a wet sound. Neither were very successful at making Altair stop.

“I swear, Altair, if you don’t stop--”

“You’ll do what?” Altair’s laughter had died down to chuckles, but there was a clear challenge in the way he smirked at Malik with his head tilted back that was as irritating as it was attractive, “What will you do if I don’t stop, Malik?”

Not even a week ago Malik would have walked away: he was too old to be falling for taunts like that. Now, he only sat up and said, “this” before he all but tackled Altair.

They only narrowly avoided knocking heads, but that wasn’t important because they were too busy trying to end up as the one on top. The forest in the morning was usually filled with birdsong and the sounds of animals leaving or returning home. Now those sounds are overlayed with that of splashing water and laughter as Altair and Malik wrestled in the shallow waters.

They were still laughing when Altair managed to sit on top of Malik’s thighs, in spite of the fact that Malik’s nose still burned from accidentally snorting water during the tussle.

“Yield.” Altair managed to say in between bursts of laughter right before Malik hooked his arms around the back of his neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

The chances of them making it home for breakfast felt as if they were decreasing by the second. (Then again, every moment that Malik pulled him back down to kiss him again, Altair’s lack of care over the nature of lost breakfast increased a bit more.) There was a simple, animal joy in the press of their bodies and a heady, giddy kind of joy in knowing that (if even for these few minutes) they existed outside of the confines of their lives. Altair wasn’t the petty-criminal-homeless-orphan and Malik wasn’t that-cursed-boy-that-spit-on-a-fairy. They were simply themselves, with greedy-wet-hands and opened-mouthed kisses that tasted like river water and mud. 

In that moment it was conceivable that anything was possible. 

Malik arched up under him, pushed with his whole body until Altair was sitting back and Malik held onto him with both arms as he shifted his legs so he was kneeling across Altair’s lap. The change in position gave him the height advantage and he exploited it with precision. His lips were kiss-red when he tipped his head away. His back was covered in mud and his hands were gritty when they touched Altair’s face. 

“What?” Altair asked.

For a minute, all the worry (of yesterday and the day before) covered Malik’s face like a mask. It suffocated the grin so it was that grim press of his lips together and the tender touch of his hands felt like awkward in contrast. Then he licked his lips and said, “I was trying to figure out how to ask you if we were going to fuck. I couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t crude.”

That was just as well, Altair didn’t need to breath anyway. “Yeah?” he said, “you want my dick in you?”

“I expected that you did,” Malik retorted. It wasn’t a denial, just an evasion. But he looked to the side with his lips pursed in faux disappointment. “I just figured you would have stolen some kind of lubricant by now. I was waiting for it.” Right in the middle of all that deadpan delivery of a stupid reproach, Altair pinched Malik on the ass and smiled right into his outraged face.

“I stole some days ago. I was just waiting for the chance to use it.” Altair watched the way Malik’s cheeks turned pink at the words (not that Altair hadn’t made his intentions clear before, but now there was nothing to complicate the reactive lust that brought all intelligent thoughts to a screeching stop). 

Malik sighed and tilted Altair’s head back, “you’re incorrigible.” Not enough however, to dissuade him from bending down to catch Altair’s mouth in a quick kiss. “where were you keeping it?”

“In my pocket.” Altair gave Malik’s ass a brief squeeze before letting his hands drop, “we should get out of the water first.”

The air was chilly on their wet skin once they left the water. Getting to the oil Altair had (stolen) was a longer process than it should have been because he first had to _find_ the clothes they were kept in. Malik regretted having dumped his half of the clothing they carried to the river on top of the pile every moment he spent trying to keep himself from shivering.

When Altair managed to find his pants, he pulled from it a small, ceramic vessel with a stopper. It was blue-green, round and flat, and, even without seeing the distinctive designs on it, Malik was fairly sure that was one of Meg Violet’s wares that she sold for people to carry potions (or whatever it was they needed) in.

“You really need to stop stealing from the villagers.”

It would be easier to stop stealing from them if they made it more difficult to take things. Altair didn’t address that issue but look around at the unremarkable place they had chosen. Higher up on the bank, the ground was dry (at least) and Malik had enough clothes that they could lay them out to protect their backs. When he looked back at Malik, the man was standing there with a dour expression on his face and his hands on his hips. It was clear he was expecting some agreement to his statement.

Altair sighed. “I will stop stealing from the villagers,” he said. (But he wasn’t happy about it.) “I don’t have much experience in living in one place.”

“Well, if you’re planning on staying you need to learn the basics. No stealing, don’t antagonize your neighbors--simple stuff.” Malik watched Altair crouch down to make a makeshift bed out of his clothes. His thoughts on the progress were a confusion of obvious lust and half-hearted embarrassment. “Have you done this before?”

“Uh,” Altair said. He finished straightening the clothes and sat on them. Malik dropped down to rest on his knees facing Altair with a raised eyebrow of expectation. “Yes.” The word sounded exactly like it felt. Some half-expressed confession that was neither proud or ashamed of itself. “I’ve done a lot,” he admitted. “We can do it whichever way you want or--not all if you don’t want to.” 

For Malik, whose experience with these things was limited to manual stimulation and the explicit novels Kadar had taken to buying him, being presented with the chance to choose anything he wanted only made his mind blank from all the half-realized possibilities. He had never needed to think seriously about sex because it wasn’t something he ever expected to happen. In fact, he had spent the better part of his life since becoming an adult actively avoiding the people who were propositioning him for sex.

“I--” He wrinkled the clothes he was sitting on then smoothed it out again. He avoided looking at Altair for a moment. Then he laughed a little, “I’m willing to try anything? I honestly don’t know what I want right now.” He shuffled closer, “I’d like to be able to see your face though.”

As far as standards went, it was the least of all possible requirements. Altair might have pointed out that the one guy he had sex with by the side of the road had been more opinionated about what he was willing to do. (But why would he, on second thought.) Rather than answer he wrapped an arm around Malik and pulled him down to roll him onto his back. There was a faint look of _of course this is what you chose_ that crossed his face but it was gone again in a moment as he hooked his arm around Altair’s neck and held him in place to kiss him.

The laziness of the morning had reached a purposeful point. Malik’s hands were running down his back again, kneading at the muscles of his back until they slid down to press against the small of his back for a moment. Altair didn’t want to presume (but he would prefer) that Malik was comfortable beneath him from the easy way he spread his legs and wrapped one around Altair’s back. 

Malik kissed down to Altair’s throat, nipped at the soft skin there and sucked at his throat. He was concentrating on the taste of his skin and the ripple of muscle beneath his hands that he nearly missed the way Altair’s hands were sliding up the inside of his thigh. “But what is going to happen?” Malik asked. He pushed Altair’s shoulders so he was supporting his weight with one arm and they were both staring down at his paler hand on Malik’s thigh. 

“What do you--do you need a step by step?” Altair sat back on his knees while he considered the possibility of having to explain the exact details of what he wanted to do. The acute look of embarrassment was only interesting considering how bold he had been up to that point. “You don’t have any ideas at all?”

“Why would I?” Malik asked.

“Are you serious?” Altair had one hand on Malik’s bent knee now. Suspicion made his face more attractive than dumb lust or embarrassment. And the moment that he decided Malik was toying with him (which, fair enough, he was) his frowned. “You think you’re so funny,” he said.

Malik nodded agreeably, “I’m hilarious.” He managed to say with utmost gravity (if not for the way his mouth kept trying to twitch into a grin).

“Haha.” Altair deadpanned, as he leaned forward again until he was kneeling above Malik with his hands planted on the ground. “Clearly, you missed your true calling.”

“Clearly.” Malik didn’t even bother to hide his grin now.

Nowhere in Altair’s fantasies did he imagine Malik being this mouthy (in retrospect it had been a stupid oversight). It should have been irritating, but it _wasn’t_. Instead, Malik’s impudence, the way he lay there looking so incredibly pleased with what he’d just done was strangely attractive.

It made him sound almost _fond_ when he said, “Asshole.”

Whatever Malik meant to say was muffled by Altair leaning down to kiss him again while his hands went back to what they had been up to before he was interrupted. Malik nipped his bottom lip lightly, as if in reprimand, but still buried his hands in Altair’s hair to keep him close.

The flat round bottle of lube had gotten lost in the layers of shirts that their mock wrestling had disturbed. It took him a few tries to find it and by the time Altair got his fingers on it, Malik had moved on from trying to kiss him (while he was distracted) to sucking at the damp spot he’d already left on his neck. Malik’s fingers were still threaded through his hair on the right side but his left hand had gone down to press against the small of his back to encourage the slow, lazy rock of his body. 

Rather than work out the delicate mechanics of trying to pull the stopper out of the bottle while grinding against Malik, while having his neck sucked on, Altair said, “wait a minute,” and sat back on his knees. He wasn’t looking but he could _feel_ the disbelief that was emanating from Malik in that moment. Rather than address it he pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured a little puddle of into his hand. He spread it generously on his dick (that very eagerly pulsed with renewed _want_ at the slightest touch) and then more onto his fingers. He put the stopper back into the bottle and propped it up on the grass over Malik’s head before he looked down at the man. 

Malik was picking his fingernails his knees bent and pulled up casually spread open like he was so bored at being made to wait. 

“See if I ever suck your dick again,” Altair said to him. He dropped a quick kiss to Malik’s lips and then grabbed him by the hips to pull him up onto his own thighs. The sudden change in angle made Malik grunt in objection but the way Altair tipped his head to bite the inside of his thigh made him _shout_ in surprise. “Do I have your attention?”

“You bit me,” Malik said. 

“I did,” Altair assured him. Rather than discuss the point further he ran his slippery-slick fingers down the crease of Malik’s thigh-and-hip, back and down as Malik’s concentration shifted from the pink mark on his thigh to the pressure of Altair’s finger pushing into him. It occurred to him, as Malik’s hand clamped around Altair’s free wrist, that he’d never actually had sex with a virgin before this.

“Breathe.” Altair said.

Malik exhaled, and hissed, “I am.” (He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath when Altair pushed into him.)

“Good. Now, relax.” Because Malik’s grip on his wrist was still a vice and his whole body was drawn tight. He waited for Malik to adjust and, in the meanwhile, nuzzled and kissed along his neck as a distraction. Malik’s eyes were still shut tight, but gradually, he managed to relax until Altair could extricate his hand to thread their fingers together instead. He pressed Malik’s hand to the ground, feeling the way his fingers flexed every time Altair’s finger moved.

He made small circles instead of working it in and out of Malik’s body at first. He kissed and sucked at Malik’s neck as he waited for him to adjust while listening to the way his breathing came out in pants.

(Altair had never had sex with someone that he cared about either. Sex was usually an act to stave off that feeling that could have been called loneliness if Altair’s pride allowed him to name it.)

When Altair pushed his finger in, Malik’s arched and his free hand came up to clutch at his shoulder, his fingers digging in as he let out a hiss.

Altair angled his head to kiss him on the temple, “does it hurt?”

Malik did not reply right away, but took a moment to simply breathe and _feel_. Then he licked his lips and slowly opened his eyes again, “no.” His hand began to rub absent-minded over Altair’s shoulder and back. It was many things (some of them contradictory) but painful was not one of them. “Keep going.”

The thought surfaced between Altair’s nod and the slow-building thrust of his finger into Malik’s body that if sex was like _this_ always (or even often) that it was a miracle that Altair had managed to abstain at all much less for days. The only part of the whole thing that he wasn’t sure about (at this point) was where the hell he was supposed to put his legs. Resting them around Altair’s body was easier than having to hold them up himself but then they slipped and one of his feet was tingling. 

“Hey,” Altair whispered at him. His voice was right under Malik’s jaw, his mouth was pressing precious little kisses against his skin. The word was so sweet and inviting that Malik turned his face toward him and smiled at the half-lidded look of (honest) adoration. He didn’t answer back but kissed Altair.

Their kisses were getting sloppy again, Altair pulled his fingers free of Malik’s body and curled his whole (rough, calloused) hand up to wrap around Malik’s dick. His stroking hand was off key to the kiss but it didn’t matter much to Malik’s body. He rocking up into the touch until Altair groaned something that sounded inhuman. Then he was shifting back, his back curving under Malik’s hands as Altair stared down at his own dick. He licked his lips and gave his own dick a quick stroke before reaching forward to get the bottle of lube again. 

Malik took the time to trace the hard lines of muscle-over-bone on Altair’s body. Touched at the little scars and dips and marks leftover from his life. He was drawing a half-circle of a thin-lined scar when Altair scooted forward again, one of his hands was on the ground over Malik’s shoulder and the other was down between their bodies, holding his dick in place as he rubbed the thick head of it against Malik. The way Altair was looking at him seemed like it was asking him something and Malik was fresh out of ways to assure him (at least convincing ones when he was caught between hard-pounding anxiety and hot-warm lust) so he wrapped his legs around him and nodded his head. 

When Altair pushed in, it was not painful but some confusing combination of strange and just right that made the muscles in Malik’s thigh twitch reflexively. Altair pushed in deeper with deliberate and careful slowness as he stroked the crease where Malik’s thighs met his hips with small, distracting brushes of his thumb.

There was a shiver knocking through Malik’s body by the time Altair was balls deep inside him and he waited (he had waited five days already. What was another moment?) for it to abate. It was Malik who tightened his legs around his body, in an effort to get him to do something besides sit there and staring.

“Altair.” He said like he was begging.

There was no shortage of attractive men and women with enticing voices and sweet entreaties with whom he had had sex with. Yet none of them, not even one, had this sort of effect on him. Whoever it was, Altair had been certain in the knowledge that he did not need them, that he could leave at any point and be no worse for it.

He had never wanted to give them everything, if only to hear the way his name falls from their lips when he gave them everything they wanted.

Malik had expected--something, had expected something entirely different than the way Altair kissed him. Something far removed from the hand that ran up the outside of his thigh and the slow-and-steady rock of Altair’s body. He’d expected it to be like before, the first time with a sudden starburst of intensity. 

This was a slow-building tension in his body. Perfectly timed to give him the chance to feel every motion in clarity. The pads of Altair’s fingers against his thigh, the drag and push of his dick, the slippery-smooth press of his tongue in Malik’s mouth. And the gust of his breath against his face. Malik groaned and Altair smiled against his mouth. 

They were kissing but sharing the same-warm-air. Altair’s hand was off his thigh and in the dirt. But the other one was curled around Malik’s dick to stroke it in time with the maddening slowness of his thrusts. Each of them was an eternity and Malik wasn’t sure if he wanted to revel in it or demand an change. So he ran his hands over Altair’s body again, touched here-and-there. He was pinching at Altair’s nipple while he moaned because it _was_ good (just like this).

“You smile,” Altair said. He lifted his hand from the ground to touch his thumb at the edge of Malik’s face as he thrust _in_ and he smiled to match the way Malik smiled (and hadn’t realized it). “Guess I know how to make you smile now.” There was certain a comeback to that (an important one) but Altair chose that moment to shift his knees under Malik’s hips and jerked forward harder than he had before. They smacked together loud enough to fill the space around them with embarrassing wet noises. Malik gasped at the intensity of it and Altair grinned like a fool with sweat dripping out of his hair. He did it again (just as hard, just as quick) and put both his hands to the ground like he was bracing himself. “Which one do you like better?” 

“Harder.” Not necessarily because he liked it better, but because it was different and _more_ teetering on the edge of _too much_ , because he wanted all of it: the gentle, lazy lovemaking as well as the rough, hard fucking (he wanted the intimate gazes, the teasing, the shared laughter as well as every single indication that Altair wanted him).

Altair nodded, then leaned down to kiss him. It was a soft, sweet thing in contrast to the way he fucked into him _hard_. The sound he made was muffled by Altair’s mouth on his, but on the next thrust, it was allowed to echo loudly in the forest air when Altair leaned back.

Their make-shift bed of clothes did not completely soften the ground, but whatever discomfort that existed was inconsequential when Malik couldn’t even be bothered to be embarrassed about the sounds he was making at this point. Altair was relentless in his movements and it was all Malik could do to cling to his arms hard enough that his fingers made indents in Altair’s skin.

The sound of the river and the wind in the trees seemed to be entirely drowned out by the sounds they were making until the world narrowed down to this: the sound of skin on skin, the little pants they were letting out in place of regular breathing and the way Altair _looked_ at him, all heated with lust.

Malik groaned and reached down with one hand to stroke his own dick because he was hot all over and the heat was building up and up until he could barely stand it.

Altair moaned like he’d been trying very hard not to and the utter depravity of the sound fluttered through Malik’s body. It was the last straw. He dug his knees into Altair’s body as his back arched and he came. Altair moaned-at-that and pressed his forehead against Malik’s shoulder as he fucked into him in tight-short-thrusts until he gasped a low sound against his skin. A shiver ran through his whole body.

Malik’s body felt well-used and over-heated. (Sort of like a warm jelly.) He lay there with one hand against his sticky belly and one arm over his head. “How did you make it five days if you knew it’d be like that?”

Altair gave up the pretense of supporting his own weight after her shifted back to pull free of Malik’s body. He laid on him like an extraordinarily heavy blanket. “It’s not always,” Altair said. “It matters who you’re with.”

“I’m hungry,” Malik said. It was a sudden development. Out of place with the moment and yet his stomach was snarling with hunger now that he was out of more primal distractions. Altair laughed against his chest and lifted up to kiss him one more time. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to--ruin the moment.”

“I’m hungry too. Come on. Let’s wash off and go get food. Just keep your hands to yourself this time.” Then he shoved himself back and up to his feet before holding out a hand to help Malik up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the day that never ends, apparently.

Malik had left his Mother’s house the day before wearing many layers of clothing. He came back home carrying many layers of clothing that he dropped on the porch to be shaken clean of debris. The only layer he was wearing felt strange over his skin. It was a shirt from the middle of the large stack, a size (at least) too big for his body and too thin to properly protect others from him. He paused on the porch torn between striding in looking exactly like he’d spent the whole morning having sex with Altair (who certainly looked like he’d spent the whole morning having sex) and trying to make himself more presentable. In the end he tucked in his shirt while Altair laughed at him.

“Should we leave the flower outside?” Altair asked.

“I guess,” Malik said. “Or we could put it in a window inside.” As far as he knew nobody had ever thought to pot the flower and thus he had no idea how to care for it. “Mom might want to see it.”

Malik smoothed a hand over his shirt. There was nothing that could be called presentable in the pile of clothing, no matter how far the word was stretched. Still, Malik might had looked through it just once more (his cowl was only covered in dirt and grass, it would at least help hide the marks on his neck) if it weren’t for the fact that they had missed dinner yesterday as well. His hunger was a very pressing concern that demanded he stop stalling.

Since Altair was still grinning at him as he made a half-hearted attempt to fix his hair without the help of a mirror, Malik reached out to shove him lightly.

“Stop that.” Then he sighed and pushed the front door open. “We’re back.”

He had been prepared for his Mother to ask them where they were all night and why they hadn’t told her they would be out all night. (On the way back he had even steeled himself for the possibility that someone might have seen them last night and the news of his brief foray into law-breaking had made it back to her.)

He hadn’t imagined a single scenario where Mother looked downright pleased to see them coming home so late.

Even Altair seemed to have been caught off guard by the reception they received.

“Welcome home.” Her smile was _knowing_ and Malik almost wished she’d just asked them where they were so he could give her the answer he’d rehearsed, “Don’t worry, I left you some food. I’m sure you two must have worked up quite the appetite.”

“Mom!” Malik sputtered, flushing red as Altair threw his head back and laughed (earning himself an elbow to his gut courtesy of Malik).

“Son,” Mother said. She put one hand on her hip and lifted the other to motion her fingers in the air as if circling the entirety of his being. That wasn’t a suitable enough explanation for how pleased she was by the idea that he’d been out in the woods having sex (and how much sex she thought he must have been having was an interesting question suddenly). She followed it up by saying, “eat. I made sure to save a little extra. Your brother was complaining about it the whole time.”

“I’m starving,” Altair announced. He pulled the chair by one of the last two empty plates and sat down as if one could simply sit down despite the fact that Malik’s Mother was smiling. Then he reached over to pull open the dish of food and made a low-rumbling sound of appreciation in his chest not so unlike the sound he’d made when he was fucking Malik. “This smells really good.”

Malik stared at Altair who smiled innocently at him before pushing a second chair out from under the table with his foot like inviting him to be closer. He sat (if only because the smell of the food made his stomach roll over with ravenous hunger) and he accepted the food that Altair put on his plate. He ducked his head and ate while avoiding looking at his Mother (who was humming love songs across the room). 

“This is really good,” Altair said. 

“Thank you,” Mother said.

Altair was eating like it was his last chance. But he paused long enough to take a long drink of water. Then he licked his lips and said, “second best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

When Malik kicked him (hard enough to rattle the table), Altair _laughed_.

\--

Since neither Malik nor Altair had managed to make it back in time, Kadar had, by right of being the only one present, made the executive decision to take the morning off. It was the day after the festival: very few people will be awake this early and even fewer of them will be interested in anything besides a strong hangover cure.

After that, his brother had left to go meet the seamstress girl (who, according to Mother who had had to sit through the story the night before, had spent the better part of the previous evening walking with Kadar as he looked for a flower) sometime before Altair and Malik got back with a promise to return for lunch.

Altair had left after he finished eating to fetch his tools from the cart to start work on the commissions they received yesterday. To Malik’s (disappointment and) relief he did not try to steal a kiss before he left.

So it was only Malik and his Mother in the house as he helped to clean the table. Mother was smiling happily at the potted flower Altair brought back.

“Perhaps you should keep it in your room?”

“I always have the curtains drawn. Would it even get enough sun?” Malik stopped what he was doing for a moment. He opened his mouth then closed it again without asking the question he meant to.

There was no obvious cue that could have alerted Mother to his hesitation when her attention seemed to be on the plant she held in her hands, but she looked up at him as if she could hear the echo of his worried thoughts.

She set the plant down and reached out to touch his face, “What is it?”

“Were you--,” (but no, that wasn’t exactly what he wanted to ask was it), “When I first got cursed, did it affect you?” 

From the gentle way her face fell from a helpful smile to a sad sort of grimace, the answer itself seemed obvious. It was unnecessary added information when she said, “I thought that I was, at first. I was very protective of you but I told myself it was natural because you were my child and you had been cursed. When I look back on it, I don’t think that was true. I don’t think even your brother was immune to it.” Her thumb went across the rough stubble stuck on his cheek like apologizing for allowing his erroneous belief to continue.

“How long did it last?” Malik asked. It seemed (once he asked the question) that it would have been better to know before he went off and let his body make all the choices for him. 

Mother’s hand moved away from him entirely. She was quiet a moment while she thought of her answer but also she looked out toward the door and the whole vast world beyond it (perhaps in the direction that Altair had gone) before putting her hands together one on top the other. She cleared her throat and said, “it was the strongest the first three or four days. I didn’t want you to leave my side at all. It was so powerful that I couldn’t sleep if you weren’t close enough to touch.” (Malik remembered that. Remembered how she had told him it was just because she was frightened something would happen. He had been afraid and angry then too and it seemed _normal_ to him the way Kadar sleeping against his side had always been normal.) “The fourth and fifth day I felt more normal. I felt like I had a choice again even if the urge to stay near to you was still strong. I couldn’t tell you now if that was only because I am your mother and I felt like I failed to protect you or if it were the work of the curse. But I know that the love that I felt for you--regardless of how the curse altered my behavior--was my own. The curse made me want to keep you near me. It felt possessive and needy but it didn’t feel like love. What happens to the others that see you--they feel this need to have you and they think it is love or they think it is lust. But what I remember is that I loved you before it and I loved during it but it was not love that made me want to keep you hidden at my side.”

Malik had never considered the difference. He wasn’t given the appropriate amount of time then to think it through because almost as quickly as Mother finished saying that, she continued with:

“What about Altair?”

He looked at the plant for want of anything else to focus his eyes on. “He told me that no one was immune to the curse.” _Not even you,_ “Not even him. He said he didn’t do anything because what I wanted mattered and that it mattered to him that I knew it wasn’t the curse making him do this. He didn’t have to tell me that.” Altair could have lied about it and Malik might never have questioned it after the five days. It had been an unhappy revelation then but in this context it meant something entirely different. “Last night he told me, ‘no matter what happens, don’t give up again’. He said,” He rubbed at his eyes, but he was _smiling_ like an idiot, “I deserve more than what I’ve gotten, and that I should fight for it.”

At fourteen, Malik had told an older boy who had wanted to experience what it felt like to be in love that what the curse did wasn’t real love (it was no more real than gold that turned to ashes with the dawn light). He hadn’t thought too deeply about why it was not, only that it was temporary and fleeting, there and gone again after a week.

But if it wasn’t love because of what his Mother said, because it was selfish and possessive then what was the thing Altair felt?

Malik had accepted that his desire and affections were genuine, but this was--

The very notion of it was overwhelming and made him feel a stupid sort of giddiness that fixed a smile to his face, and made him feel light as _air_.

“I need to go speak to him.” Malik had taken half a step before he remembered he was still not wearing enough clothes to safely walk outside, followed quickly by the remembrance that he was supposed to be helping his Mother clean up.

Any attempt to leave the safety of his house would require him to wash the majority of his clothes (a task he did not enjoy) so he sighed and turned around to look at Mother (who was very amused). “When he gets back,” Malik said.

\--

Altair had to break into the cart (which was not a novel event in any way) but the extra time it took him to pick the lock left him out in the open to be discovered. He counted on the idea that most of the town was aware (at this point) that he’d joined the Al-Sayf brothers at their failing family business and thus nobody would accuse him of robbery. (Mostly he was not in the mood to run this morning.) He was three-fourths the way through getting the lock open when a small, mouse-brown-haired girl happened to run up to him.

While he wasn’t good at ages, he would guess she was thirteen or so. Still too young to be let out to run around unattended (in his opinion) but tall enough that if one ignored the youth of her face, they might think she was older. She had the look of a timid animal that would turn rabid if provoked as she stood a careful arm’s distance from him. 

“Yes?” he asked.

“He’s mine,” the girl said. The utter seriousness of her words left no room for imagination as to what she was talking about. “I’ll cut you to pieces.” Her voice was as soft as bird-song, almost musical in its threats.

The lock that had been resisting Altair’s attempts popped open and he tucked his lockpick set back into his pocket before he turned to look at the girl. “I don’t doubt you would,” he said. And yet, “but he’s not yours. He’s not mine. And it’s not our choice who he wants, is it?”

“You wouldn’t understand love!” the girl screamed at him. She threw her body forward in a chaos of uncoordinated motion but the loose dirt of the road made her fall which gave Altair just enough time to duck into the cart (rather than fight the girl) and he slammed the door shut just as her fists hit it. Her screaming was muffled through the wood but he could make out the general threats of dismemberment.

It continued on for a bit, before the sound of her slapping her hand against the door was abruptly gone and the stream of threats turned into a long wail of ‘no’.

There was a window at the far side of the cart. It was small and getting to it would involve trying to squeeze between or go over everything else in the cramped inside of the cart. Altair was seriously considering escaping out of it when there was a softer, timid knock on the door.

It was an older woman’s voice that said, “um.” There is a pause, and the girl could still be heard screaming but it was indistinct and muffled, “you can come out now.”

Altair opened the door a crack, enough to see out of but could still be closed quickly if necessary (and possibly on whatever digits were unfortunate enough to be in the way). There was a woman probably in her late thirties standing there. She was wringing her hands with a look of acute embarrassment and guilt that made her face look different from the girl (who was still screaming though this time at the young man holding her back), despite having similar features.

“I’m sorry. Sarah’s not normally like this. She’s such a sweet girl--”

Almost as soon as she said it, the young man howled and nearly lost his hold on the girl (Sarah, apparently). “You bit me! Mom, she just bit me!” When he grabbed her again it was around her waist, with her arms pinned to her side, away from biting teeth and scratching nails.

Altair stared because Sarah had bitten her brother hard enough she’d drawn blood.

The mother’s face had gone red with embarrassment and anger as she said, “Excuse me.” Before turning around and saying in a shriller voice, “Sarah Keller don’t you bite your brother again!”

Altair took advantage of the distraction to drag his box of tools and parts out from under the stacked table. He stepped down out of the cart while Sarah Keller’s Mom hurried over to help out the brother in keeping her from getting loose. Sarah was screaming a long inarticulate shriek of noise while her arms flailed in the air in front of her and her fingers curled up into claw-like-hooks. For a brief second, he debated on giving up on the notion of getting his stuff, but he’d already come this far. (Clearly spending time around Malik was forcing a level of maturity onto him that he was not comfortable with.) So he grabbed the box and set it on the ground before doing his best to lock the cart quickly. 

“I’m going to go,” Altair said (as loudly as he could without shouting).

Mrs. Keller (presumably her name), said, “thank you dear.” Sarah Keller was screaming _I’ll kill you, I’ll find you and I’ll kill you he’s mine!_ as Altair fled for his life. 

By the time he’d made it back (to Malik’s) home, the feeling of disturbed worry made him turn his head every time there was a sudden noise in the forest. Logically, he felt that he could defend himself against a homicidal little girl but then logically, he wouldn’t have thought any little girl could reach that level of rabid psychosis. He found Malik standing on the back porch (the one farthest from the road) sorting through the layers and layers of his clothing. 

“Hey,” Altair said before he dropped his box on the step.

Malik smiled at him (and it was the perfect antidote to every minute of anxiety and worry that had followed him from the cart). “Hey,” he said. “I was starting to worry about you.”

The desire to find Altair, and do something foolish and impulsive had lessened by now (enough for logic to reassert itself and realize that whatever he had done would surely have been embarrassing). It did not stop him from pulling Altair in for a quick kiss as soon as he was close enough.

Altair pulled back with a short sigh, “So, this girl threatened to kill me over you.”

“Oh.” Malik didn’t sound surprised. At best, what he was displaying could be called mild concern, which seemed disproportionate to the news he just received, “who was it?” He couldn’t remember exactly who had been affected at the festival. It had been too chaotic to take stock of everyone who was screaming their affections towards him.

“Sarah Keller.” Altair said, “This has happened before.”

“Not with her.” This wasn’t even the first of Mrs. Keller’s children who had fallen under the curse though she had been one of the few who had made her son apologize after it wore off. “But this isn’t even the worse thing that’s ever happened.” Malik did not say _sorry_ even though _sorry_ was what he’d conditioned himself to feel about situations like this over the years. 

Altair leaned forward to bump their foreheads together, “Stop that.” Because there was an apology written in the knit of Malik’s brow and the way his lips pressed into a hard line. It was a different experience to rest his hands on Malik’s arms and feel the hard muscle of his arms under just the one layer of clothing. He squeezed his hands around Malik’s arms. “You were worried about me huh?”

The stress that was making Malik’s face all tight lines loosened as he tipped his head back to shake it slowly at him. “My Mother is inside,” he said.

That wasn’t even enough to make Altair think twice about slipping his arm around Malik’s back. He stepped forward as he did it so that Malik stepped back and his thighs hit the railing around the porch. Malik’s hands were pressed against his chest but his hips were angled to rock up against his. (Now that was curious: subconscious or purposeful, it was still very _interesting_.) “I have this idea that she already knows,” Altair whispered. He kissed Malik (just a brief touch of lips). “I was almost killed.”

“You were not,” Malik said. “You’re a foot and a half taller than Sarah Keller.”

“I saw my whole life,” Altair continued. He ducked his hand down between their bodies to feel the impossible-but-eager attempt that Malik’s dick made toward arousal. “There wasn’t enough of you in it.”

Malik laughed at him. “How many people have you said that to?”

“A few,” Altair admitted. He kissed Malik again as he groaned in a half-objection. Malik kissed him like he had in the forest, like they were alone with only the birds to catch them. It was a heady, thought-stealing kind of kiss. His own body was making attempts to follow through on the ideas knocking around in his head so that he was pressing up against Malik’s body until he had to shift around to press his back to the wall. It was his hand on Malik’s thigh and Malik’s knee pulled up along his thigh and all the close-close-warmth of their bodies only separated by minimal layers of (relatively thin) fabric. A parade of ideas (and notions, and desires) was running from Altair’s head to his dick and he was all set on following through with a few of them.

The door opened and Malik shoved him back so hard Altair couldn’t catch himself before he hit the railing and fell over it. He landed on his back in the leaves around the porch and couldn’t see for the way all the breath (and vision) had been knocked straight out of his body.

There was a shout of his name and he managed to focus on Malik’s face as he ran right up to the railing before ducking around it.

“Altair!” His heart was pounding when he skipped the second step to get to the ground and then kneel beside Altair. “Did you hit your head? Are you--” He had been _worried_ because Altair hadn’t been moving but then, all of a sudden, there was a hand at his shoulder and, before Malik could process it, he found himself rolled onto his back with Altair hovering above him.

He was frowning when, from the direction of the house, Kadar started laughing.

“Shut up.” Malik sat up on his elbows and turned his head enough to glare, his cheeks spotted pink with embarrassment, “that wasn’t--stop laughing! It isn’t funny!”

That only made Kadar wheeze, “Okay.” He said, not because seeing his brother freak out hadn’t been funny but because both Altair and Malik were glaring at him now, “I’m going. But this means I need to think of something else to get you for your birthday now, right?”

It was unclear if that was a question that required an answer or not because Kadar was just chuckling to himself as he stepped down off the porch and headed around the corner of the house. The whole nature of his reasoning for choosing this route was more confusing by the moment. When he, and the sound of his chuckling, was gone, Altair turned back to look at Malik.

“That’s twice now that I’ve nearly died today.”

“I worry about your penchant for exaggeration,” Malik said.

“I worry for _my life_ ,” Altair retorted. Then he sat in the dirt and rubbed the back of his head. There was no lasting damage after the shock of falling wore off but he had dirt in his hair (again). “We should do something productive.” 

Malik sat up next to him. The pile of laundry he was meant to be doing seemed mountainous. He just sighed. “It wouldn’t take long if we just got to it.”

“Yeah,” Altair agreed. But neither one of them moved to do anything.

Out of the forest and away from the center of the town, they had a (more-or-less) unobstructed view of the sky. Yet, somehow, the world felt smaller and more boxed in than it had been in the forest with its overhanging branches and the lack of anyone else. It made Malik hesitate before he leaned against Altair.

Malik cleared his throat.

“I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”

Altair made a noncommittal sound that was not forgiveness, exactly, but still amused at any rate. His hand settled on Malik’s thigh and it was just as suggestive as the way he said, “you can always make it up to me.”

It was terribly tempting, but the proximity of the house (and by extension his Mother inside of it), made Malik reach out to take Altair’s hand and thread their fingers together. “Not here.” He hissed.

“I almost died, Malik. _Twice_.” Altair reminded him, even though he made no attempt to disentangle their hands. Malik rolled his eyes at him (but it felt something like a victory when he caught a brief glimpse of a smile on Malik’s face.) Then it was, “we need to do something about this curse.”

“Because you’re afraid Sarah Keller will kill you?” Malik looked down at their joined hands and tried not to think about the fact that just because Altair wasn’t affected didn’t mean the curse wasn’t a problem. “Before you say anything about trying to break the curse, I should tell you that it’s not really a curse. The fairy,” that he spat on, “called it a gift. Gifts can’t be broken: they can only be taken away by the giver and I don’t think she’s going to do that even if we manage to find her.”

The notion of finding the fairy to remove (or change) the curse hadn’t occurred to Altair. It wasn’t that it was a bad idea (or wouldn’t have been before Malik clarified the problem) but that his experience with magical creatures was so very limited that he sometimes forgot that fairies were real things. There were stories of them (of course there were) and the fickle nature of their intolerance for rudeness or a failure to worship them on sight. Altair had heard enough of them to consider them pests and monsters rather than delightful elf-like harbingers of joy. 

Altair’s solutions were always more practical anyway. “I was thinking more like, making everyone immune to it?” 

Malik not only pulled his hand away but actually turned his entire body so he was facing Altair rather than sitting next to him. His expression was a confusing mix of _outrage_ and _deep pity_ as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to slap Altair for being ignorant and oblivious or if he wanted to pat him on the head for being dumb. “That’s impossible,” he stated. “There’s no proof that the _average person_ is even capable of becoming immune to this curse. Not to mention the fact that the only reason it’s not illegal for me to walk around without all my clothes,” he motioned back at the pile behind him, “is because my Mother fought them on it. The town has no interest in the chaos that would be involved in making them immune. Sarah Keller just tried to kill you and she’s a _child_ , imagine what the entire town full of skilled adults would do.”

Malik had a fair point about the danger, but Altair refused to run and wait for someone to jump him because Malik wanted him and not them (and he wanted Malik to be able to be outside in summer without constant risk of heatstroke.)

“They can’t all be that way.”

“Most of them aren’t, normally.” Malik rubbed at the bridge of his nose, “But I’ve also never shown any interest in anyone. I don’t know how many of them will react like Sarah Keller did.” He might like to hope that, that wouldn’t be the case, but realistically it was very likely.

Altair nodded and it was dawning on Malik that he wasn’t letting the idea _go_ even before he said, “then maybe we can split them into smaller groups and work on each one individually.”

“You’re not _listening_.” Malik reached out and shoved Altair on the shoulder, “ _No one_ is going to agree to this and I’m not going to just spring this on them!” Altair caught his hand by the wrist and Malik only huffed, “I want to get rid of this curse as much as you do, but this isn’t going to work.”

“What if I can convince them? If I can get the townspeople to agree, will you try?”

“Ha.” Malik pulled his hand back, very much doubting that such a thing was possible, “If the townspeople agree I will do whatever you ask, but that’s _not_ going to happen.”

Altair didn’t bother to retort to the statement. It was evident from the arrogant determination on his face that he was _fully prepared_ to keep trying until he made it happen. Rather than argue about it anymore, he got back up to his feet and held out a hand to assist Malik to getting up again. “I have to work on these commissions. Maybe I’ll think of something useful while I do it.” It wasn’t giving in and it wasn’t brashly announcing how he could win but a neutral agreement to disagree on this point.

\--

It started to rain after lunch (which prompted Malik to glare out the window as if he could evaporate the rain soaking through his meticulously laundered clothing) and Altair moved his work from the soggy porch to the dry interior of the home. His intention was to find a quiet corner to set up shop but Mother insisted that he take up space at the table. 

Malik went to ‘take a nap’ when he got bored of watching the rain fall. Whether that meant he was simply going to hide in his room or if he were actually going to sleep more (the idea seemed preposterous given how much he’d slept the night before) was unknown. 

The rain pattering against the windows made a nice white-noise to fill the silence while he sorted out the pieces of glass he was going to work with. Mother came over to sit across from him (just out of the way of his mess) while she worked on sewing up holes in clothes. 

“If you were interested in wearing anything but those clothes, I could recommend a good seamstress for you. Kadar’s outgrown enough clothes, I might have some laying around that could be made to be the right size for you.” Despite being a commentary on the sad circumstances that had led to the fact that Altair was wearing the same filthy clothes he’d been wearing when he abruptly interrupted their lives, Mother’s tone was friendly. It seemed sincere in a foreign kind of way. 

“Uh thanks,” Altair said. “Do I smell?”

“No,” Mother said. A smile quirked up at the edge of her mouth. “But I find that it’s always nice to have clean clothes.”

That it was. Clean clothes were a rare luxury. So was regular food and a reasonable bed. “I might take you up on that,” he said. Mother hummed agreeably. Then he finished sorting out the pieces he’d need to make the next piece and looked at her. “I might need a different kind of help though,” he said, “do you think you could help me convince some of the villagers to try becoming immune to Malik’s curse?”

Mother looked up from the mending. She was surprised by the question but she nodded her head. “It is not the villagers that will need the most convincing,” she said.

“Malik already promised to cooperate if I can get the villagers to agree. He doesn’t think I can do it.” It was not an unfair assessment. Altair was an outsider, he did not know the people here well and they do not know him. By himself, convincing the villagers would have been far more difficult unless he enlisted more help.

Mother smile was exasperated, but fond, “my son can be stubborn and set in his ways.” It was not an apology for the person Malik was (even if at times she thought his life would be easier if he would stop making it so difficult for himself). “But I am sure you are already aware of that.”

Altair’s smile was a reflexive thing, more because he wasn’t sure if it was a statement he was supposed to agree with than because he agreed (though he most certainly did think Malik was stubborn as a mule on most things). 

She placed the clothes she was mending down, and set the needle into the pin cushion. Not because she cannot multi-task, but because it was only polite to give Altair her full attention when she said, “I will help you. There are a few people I can think of who could be convinced to try. If it succeeds, they could be a great help in convincing the others.”

“Thank you.”

“I appreciate what you are doing,” Mother said. “There have been so few people in Malik’s life that have considered his wants over their own. I do not know much about you but I hope that I have the chance to learn more.” 

That was one of the most gentle inquiries about his intentions that he’d ever suffered through. Altair nodded before he cleared his throat. “That would be nice. I haven’t had a family--or a home--in a very long time.”

Mother smiled. “Well, as soon as the rain stops, I’ll take a walk into town to talk to a few friends.” Then she picked up her mending again. “I expect that you’ll follow through with your side. Malik may agree to this in theory but it will be different when he has to watch people affected by this curse. He’ll need support.”

“Of course,” Altair said.

\--

Malik emerged from his room again some time after the rain petered off into nothing.

That they should acquire proper work gloves for Altair was an idle thought that came to him as he walked into the room Altair had set up his work and asked, “Where is Mom?” 

“She went into town to speak to some people.” Altair did not feel the ‘why’ needed explaining and, for a moment, Malik wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this information. It made sense, that Altair would recruit his Mother for this venture, but it was unexpected all the same. Altair did not strike him as the sort of person who would ask for anyone else’s help.

The surprise made Malik stop, but then he shook his head, “Of course.” He said, because he really should have known better. Altair had been adamant and single-minded in the way he had approached every challenge so far. Why should this be any different?

The realization should not have made fondness well in his chest until it warmed him from the inside. Even if it did, he definitely hadn’t meant to show it obviously enough to draw Altair’s attention.

There were things Malik had worked out while he was (sulking) in his room by himself, things that seemed like the sort Altair should know before he made the decision to stay. None of them seemed as important as, “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate this.” He made a vague gesture, hoping to indicate the whole of what Altair has done and was planning to do.

“I still think it’s stupid idea,” Because everything that had happened these last few days felt like a miracle, like something he wasn’t supposed to have and it made _this_ feel like courting trouble, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.”

Altair put down whatever he had been working on, and leaned back in his chair. The gloves on his hands were too bulky to do fine work but made the way his hands rubbed down his thighs as he said, “Well that’s something. I don’t want you to think that _I’m_ not grateful or that I don’t appreciate _this_ ,” then Altar lifted one of his hands to motion at all of Malik’s body. 

“What?” he asked before he could take a half-second to think about whatever it was that he could have done for Altair. (And what had he done, other than complicate his life with the curse?) So that the slow-dawning smile on Altair’s face that went all lustful and pink made Malik simultaneously blush in embarrassment (his or the shame that Altair obviously did not feel) and a sudden renewed want. “I was being sincere.”

“I appreciate your sincerity as well,” Altair assured him. Then he stood up and tugged the gloves off to drop them on the table and stretched his arms over his head with a languid arch of his body. The way he stepped up to Malik was utterly lazy but the slip of his hand around Malik’s waist was _purposeful_. His fingers wiggled up under the hem of Malik’s shirt. “I can appreciate two things at the same time.”

Malik put his hands on Altair’s arms, and looked up at him. It wouldn’t be difficult to justify taking advantage of the isolation. Rather than waiting for Altair to get around to kissing him, he leaned forward to do it himself. 

Altair made an appreciative sound at the back of his throat as his hand slid up Malik’s back. He pulled Malik closer so their bodies were flush against each other--

\--then they were interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

Having learned from earlier, Altair’s arms tightened around Malik to forestall the possibility of being shoved (again). It meant that they were still (by Malik’s books) indecently close when Kadar stopped in the doorway.

“Close the door!” Malik hissed as he disentangled himself from Altair and pushes his hand down and away from where it was still pressed against Malik’s back. Altair made a vague sound of disapproval but allowed Malik pull away.

The door shut behind Kadar. He looked between Malik and Altair before asking, “Does this mean I get to have my own room back? I mean, at this point I just feel like it would make things easier for everyone.” He didn’t mind that his older brother was having sex, but he didn’t feel it was a thing he needed (or wanted, really) to witness. At the rate things were going, though, it felt like it was only a matter of time before it happened.

“No,” Malik said almost in time with Altair sighing:

“Probably not.”

Malik was too busy glaring at Altair to notice the exact expression that Kadar made but he knew the half-laugh well enough to know it probably involved him rolling his eyes. “What does that mean, probably not?” Malik asked.

“I think Mom knows you had sex,” Kadar said, “if that’s what’s stopping you.”

“We did just meet,” Altair said, “it’s soon to be moving in together.” Although, technically, Altair had moved in with them. (More or less.) He went back to his seat at the work table he’d made and picked up the sculpture he’d been working on. 

Kadar looked from Malik’s face (distorted by an attempt to work out the true meaning of Altair’s words) and Altair’s back (seemingly unconcerned with the amount of attention it was getting) and then said, “where’s Mom?”

“Convincing some people to go along with Altair’s plan,” Malik said, “why wouldn’t you want to sleep in my room?” 

Kadar sighed. “What’s the plan?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t _want_ to. I clearly _want_ to. I just finished telling you that _want_ to sleep with you. But it doesn’t seem like something you’d be comfortable with.” Altair was looking at Malik (that was good because Malik was looking at Altair and nobody was bothering to look at or explain anything to Kadar. He could (in fact) simply not be in the room and it wouldn’t matter to anyone. 

Malik’s head tipped to one side and his lips did that flat-lined thing that meant he was disappointed in that manner of reasoning but also vaguely embarrassed to discover that he was making a big deal out of nothing. “Not everyone is as comfortable with their private matters being public knowledge.”

To which Altair sighed. “I know,” he said. “It’s fine.”

Malik didn’t seem convinced.

Kadar cleared his throat (again), to say, “two questions! What is the plan? Is someone making dinner?”

\--

Kadar didn’t seem to have much of an opinion on whether the plan would work (but he was fairly certain it would happen now that Mother had been recruited). He was much more interested in the novel idea that the curse affected everyone, having been too young to remember the days after the fairy left.

“But he was so normal.” Kadar said and gestured at Altair, “he seriously didn’t do anything for five days?”

The answer to his second question had been significantly shorter if only because Malik and Kadar had never been allowed in the kitchen while Mother cooked. They had very little interest in the process by which groceries became a cooked meal and the best they could hope for if Mother did not come home to cook was to eat like rabbits.

Malik had asked Altair if he knew how to cook out of curiosity.

He had shrugged. “Nothing complicated.” Then it was, “you should learn. It’s a useful skill.”

Which had been interesting and altogether _unexpected_ to find out and Malik might have asked more if Kadar hadn’t interrupted him to say, “oh good. So if Mother comes back late we don’t have to eat raw carrots.”

A minute was spent on Altair just looking back and forth between them like he was trying to figure out the level of seriousness associated with that statement before he looked back at his creation like it would save him from his present predicament. “If your Mother doesn’t come back, I’ll show you how to cook,” he said after a moment.

Kadar grimaced at such a thought. “That’s better than nothing.” He pulled a seat over to the table where Altair was sitting and then sat in it. “What exactly is the plan to get everyone used to Malik? Are we having house guests? Did it take constant exposure to his ugly face? What if they try to fight? There was this one set of brothers that got in a fight and one of them broke the other’s nose and two of his fingers. They have mostly worked through that now but I feel like it was damaging for their relationship.”

Malik sighed.

Altair set down his tools again. “It took frequent, _consistent_ exposure, not constant. I don’t think they would need to sleep here but seeing your brother as a human being instead of a curse would probably help them with self control.”

Kadar had never considered it in that manner. “So you think they think of him as a--thing? Like one of these?” He picked up one of the half finished sculptures to make his point and then set it down again. “Why didn’t you?”

“People are not things.” It was Kadar who asked, but he was looking at Malik when he answered. “People will choose what they want and what I wanted from him wasn’t worth anything if he didn’t choose it for himself.”

There was more to it than that. There was something else, something unsaid and Malik had never felt the urge to shove his brother out of the room as much as he had right then (or maybe just to drag Altair somewhere where they could be alone). He was reminded of all the stupid, half thought out things he’d wanted to say-and-do right after talking to Mother. He couldn’t be made to carry through with anyone of them (but he wanted to).

Kadar looked between Altair and Malik (feeling as awkward as anyone who was in his position would). Then he pushed his chair back so it scraped against the floor loudly enough to get everyone’s attention (and instinctively winced from the knowledge that if Mother had been here she would have given him a Look for that).

“Well. I’m going to get my stuff and I’m taking my room back. You two,” and here he gestured between Altair and Malik, “can work out your own sleeping arrangements.” Then he stood up and headed to where the bedrooms were, waving as he left, “I’ll probably be a while, so just...do whatever.”

The echoing retreat of his footsteps did not linger as long as the awkward acknowledgement of Kadar’s words did. Malik’s whole face felt red across the cheeks and down his neck. While he was working through the embarrassment of being so transparent he was still thinking about how they were effectively alone again. The tops of Altair’s ears were pink as he looked acutely embarrassed _for_ but not because of Kadar. 

“I can sleep outside,” Altair said. He licked across his lips and rested his hand on the table top like an abortive attempt to pick up his tools. “It’s no big deal. If it’s wet I can sleep on the--”

“If you want,” Malik said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say. (Or even meant to say. It was nothing that he meant to convey when he opened his mouth.) He rubbed the back of his neck where the red blush was still stinging hot and looked over his shoulder toward where Kadar had gone. “It doesn’t bother you that they are all assuming that we’re just having sex any time they aren’t around to see us?”

Altair pushed one foot to the floor and used it to scratch his chair across the floor and make space in front of him. He was angled toward Malik with his knees spread and his lap looking lewdly inviting with both of his hands resting against his thighs. He shrugged. “Should it?”

“You could fake a sense of modesty.” Malik didn’t exactly take a step toward Altair but his feet seemed to be shuffling in that direction anyway. The smile on Altair’s face was offensively magnetic and Malik was caught up in the notion that it was _his_ smile, the one he’d never seen Altair offer anyone else. It was a silly romantic notion, surely poisonous in its intensity. That the smile was _solely_ his. 

“I don’t think I could fake not wanting to touch you,” Altair said. He leaned forward just enough to get his fingers on the waistband of Malik’s pants. As he leaned back into the chair he pulled Malik with him so that he either had to yank free or straddle Altair’s lap. He ended up sitting with one of his hands on the back of the chair and the other pressed against Altair’s collarbone. 

“This is overwhelming for me,” Malik said. It was a confession he didn’t think he’d make. Altair’s hands were rough against his sides before they slid up his back. His skin was too sensitive after years of being heavily sheltered from view (and sunlight and anything). Everywhere Altair’s hands touched felt overly stimulated and even the gentle, chaste touches dropped straight through his body to his dick. “Nobody touches me, nobody looks at me--nobody wants me to be happy.” That sounded far more grim than he intended. 

Altair tipped his head as he let his hands drag across Malik’s skin, around his ribs and down again to settle on his waist. “Nobody trusts me to do the right thing,” Altair said. “Nobody offers me food or a place to sleep. Don’t give me too much credit. I saw you as a person because you are one, and you saw me as a person because I am one. It’s nice to remember that.” 

Malik sighed and Altair looked hurt by the sound. His expression bordered on truly crushed as Malik pushed himself backward off the chair. He grabbed Altair’s hand as he straightened up and that brought a bright spot of hope back to Altair’s face. “I’m not getting interrupted again,” Malik said. Then he pulled Altair toward his room.

\--

Later, when they were finished, Malik shoved Altair until they could both lie down without being in danger of falling off the bed, a feat only made possible by the fact that Malik was still half-lying on top of Altair.

The way Altair was petting his hair was as distracting as the sweet kisses they shared, but Malik managed to pull back long enough to say, “We’ll need a bigger bed.”

Altair looked at Malik. What he wanted to say was caught somewhere between _are you sure_ and _you don’t have to_ , so in the end that came out was a quiet, “Yeah?” that was carefully neutral.

“This bed really isn’t made for two people.” Malik pointed out wryly, dragging himself up so he was leaning over Altair. “I’d rather have you here than outside.” It was very likely that they were going to go down for breakfast in the morning to find Mother _smiling_ at them again if they do this. It will be utterly embarrassing but seemed unimportant compared to the pleased gleam in Altair’s eyes.

“I just want to know if you’re being agreeable because you just had an orgasm.” He was grinning though as he leaned in to kiss Malik again.

“Kadar snores. You’re already the better choice just because you’re not going to keep me up with your snoring.”

Altair’s hand trailed down along Malik’s back with a thoughtful hum (it should not be possible to be aroused again so soon, but the way Altair’s fingers dragged over the skin of his back made him shiver), “I’m sure I can think of other ways to keep you up.”

Malik touched the smudge of color on Altair’s neck. He’d thought it was dirt but his thumb ran across it without disturbing the diffuse edge of it. It was a mark that he’d left there (with his mouth) and well of barbaric _pride_ at having left an obvious mark made him smile. The arrogance of his conquest leached into his voice when he said, “I’d be surprised if you managed to stay inside long enough to follow through.” 

Altair’s laugh arched up against Malik’s body. It was a wonder, not hurtful, as he sighed with exhausted merriment. “I’m not good at dealing with all these walls,” he said. He motioned his hand around the room. “I haven’t lived in a real house in--in a very long time.”

“Why?” Malik asked. 

“Because,” Altair shrugged. “I’m a thief. Nobody trusts a thief. Except you. Stealing from you isn’t fun, there’s no challenge. Your Mom would probably just give me whatever she thought I was going to take. There’s no sport in that.”

Malik sighed at him. “That’s not a real answer.”

“I wasn’t wanted in the last house I lived in and I haven’t lived in any since I left that one. People don’t--” The pause dragged as Altair’s hands moved away from Malik’s skin. His tongue was pressed against the corner of his mouth for a minute before he said, “people don’t like me. I’ve given them enough reasons. I’m not saying I don’t deserve it. And, the world is endless outside of these walls.” Altair reached across the bed to push his hand against the wall. 

Malik shifted, adjusted his position so most of his weight was on one arm as he reached out with the other, sliding over Altair’s arm to cover the back of his hand.

Altair was looking at him, but Malik’s gaze was fixed on where their hands were covering the wall.

There was a frown caught in the knit of his brow, before it was smoothed away when he sighed. “I like you. I mean, you’re a terrible influence and I feel like I should be worried that you can talk me into doing stupid things-- _illegal_ things, so easily. But I think I like that about you too.” The reasons for that weren’t anything Malik could pin down (it was a mix of everything about this man that made him frustrated and happy and warm). Malik angled his head to press their foreheads together and he was smiling as he brushed a hand over Altair’s jaw, “And no matter what, you’re welcome _here_.”

Altair smiled back at him and cupped his hand around Malik’s head to hold him still as he leaned up to kiss him. Their hands fell away from the wall when Altair shifted and Malik followed him until he was on his back with his arms around Altair. 

\--

Kadar was in the kitchen (thinking unkind thoughts about how Altair had promised to make food if Mother didn’t return and then had gone off and been distracted by Malik) when Mother finally came home. She was smiling when she greeted him. “Hello, Kadar,” she said (as if he weren’t starving to death), and then, “where’s your brother?”

Probably still making up for the years of his life lost to celibacy. 

“In his room,” Kadar said. “How’d it go with convincing people to try out becoming immune to the curse?” He didn’t actually care about that. He mostly cared about the lack of food. 

“Have you eaten?” Mother asked. But she must have known that he hadn’t because she sighed at him, “go chase your brother and Altair out of his room so they can wash up before dinner. I’ll tell you about it when we eat.” Just like that, as if it were so normal to send him to interrupt Malik’s (quite frankly awe-inspiring at this point) sex fest. But Mother shooed her hands at him and Kadar went to do what he was told.

Their bedrooms were on the opposite side of the home from their Mother’s. Which was, Kadar thought, lucky for his brother who seemed to have turned into some kind of sex fiend overnight. Kadar had never had any special feelings about the bathroom, but now he was thankful for its existence in the space between their rooms.

He slapped his hand against Malik’s door (repeatedly and loudly) as soon as he stopped in front of it. He could say he didn’t feel vindictive and pleased when someone swore in surprise inside the room (but that would be a lie).

“Mom’s home and she says you should clean up for dinner.” 

“Tell her we’ll--stop that!” There was a short pause, then Malik said, “Tell her we’ll be out in a minute.”

Given their track record thus far that seemed unlikely. “Just try not to get distracted and miss it like you missed breakfast.”

Following that was a thump that could only be someone throwing their pillow at the door from the other side. (It was most likely Malik.)

There was what sounded like a muffled conversation on the other side of the door, but Kadar didn’t hang around to figure out what it was about. Instead, he made his way back to the kitchen. If he was lucky, maybe Mother would let him let him have a snack (which almost never happened but she was late coming back today, so there was reason to hope).

She sent him away with some dried fruits and the responsibility of setting the table.

\--

Dinner was late but the twist of hunger in Malik’s gut was not the cause of the awkward quiet that suffocated the conversation. Kadar was perfectly pleased to eat (of course he was) and Altair picked at his food with the same determination as always. That left Malik to push his food around and think embarrassing things about how everyone at the table knew he was having sex and why it even bothered him. It clearly did not bother his Mother who was trying to pick up a conversation about the commissions Altair had or Kadar who was grinning fiercely every time he looked at Malik.

“Well,” Mother said when the lagging conversation came to another (abrupt) halt. “I went into town and I spoke to a few of my friends. It was not an easy conversation to have--most of them are still unsure that they believe someone can become immune to the curse. I told them to sleep on it and they promised they would.”

“That’s encouraging,” Altair said.

“Who did you talk to?”

Mother took a bite of her bread roll to stall answering but when she finished chewing she said, “well, a few different folks. Silas.”

“Crazy chicken guy?” Altair interrupted. “Why would we need him? Why would he agree?”

Malik sighed. The last thing he needed was Silas going around town telling everyone that would listen that they had tried to make him immune to a curse and instead he spent a week treating Malik like one of his precious biddies. It would be a humiliation more final and lasting than any he’d endured up to this point. The thought of it soured in his stomach. “Do I get any say in who gets involved?”

“Of course,” Mother said. “I went ahead and talked to Silas because I thought he’d need a while to warm up to the idea. I also spoke to Mary Dare and George the baker.” Who should not be confused with George Hardison who had a farm and fourteen daughters. Hardison wouldn’t have agreed to help Malik based solely on the fact that he was a man and all men wanted to sleep with Hardison’s fourteen pretty daughters. 

Malik was still fairly certain he didn’t need Silas to warm up to the idea at all, but the other two were reasonable choices. If he must suffer through this (which seemed more likely by the moment), then it would be better if it were with those who would not turn around and spread lies or complaints about him afterwards.

“Frank Herbert wasn’t at the inn when I stopped by, but his wife was. She said she would fill him in on what I told her.” She took another bite of food, which very likely meant she knew what she had to say next was unlikely to be well received, “I also stopped by the general store before they closed.”

At that, Malik rubbed a hand over his face, “I really don’t think Old Greavy’s going to agree to this.” If Malik had to name one person who was least likely to agree to this (besides Constable Cherry), it was probably her. And she, of everyone, was well within her reasons to refuse.

“You might be surprised. She seemed to be among the ones more open to the idea.” Which was just confusing to learn. Mother was making plans to go to the school house in the morning, before class started.

While Malik had agreed to the insane notion when Altair propositioned him with it, half-a-day ago it seemed like the sort of fairy tale nonsense (like finding someone to fall in love with?) and now that it was a near-reality, every mention of it made Malik angrier. He finished dinner with closed-tight-jaws and did his share of the cleaning up while Mother-and-Altair talked about the how of the plan.

‘The Plan’ where these people who had been embarrassed by Malik’s stupid curse would willingly put themselves through hell again for the off-chance of becoming immune to it. (Sure it was possible, if Mother, Kadar and Altair had become immune) but it wasn’t _likely_ when history was nearly made of conclusive proof that people couldn’t become immune. 

When Malik finished cleaning up, he went to the back porch. The sound of Altair-and-Mother chatting was dim but the settling dark was full of a wealth of noises. He kicked a stray bit of trash from one of Altair’s boxes and then the railing and the unsettled feeling of his whole life being _challenged_ grew _worse_.

The door opened behind him. Malik was ready to shout at Altair (or protest to Mother) but had nothing to say when he saw Kadar there. His ‘baby’ brother was as tall and big as him, round-faced and sweet looking even if he were scruffy after a day of failing to shave. Kadar stuck his hands down into his pockets as he walked forward and leaned against the railing on the opposite side as Malik. “Hey, remember how we used to play out here after dark?”

“Yeah,” Malik said.

Kadar pointed at the tree they’d practiced climbing (for a few years) and said, “remember how many times we fell out of that?” But he didn’t wait for an answer. “Remember the last time you went outside without having to wear the hood?”

“Remember the men that used to beat on the door shouting about how much they loved me? Remember Widow Greavy laying on this porch crying about how she thought she’d never love again? Remember the people that I’ve embarrassed? The ones that I’ve humiliated? The ones that couldn’t deal with the shame and had to move away? Your friend, Rauf? His whole family moved.”

“Remember what the sunlight feels like?” Kadar asked. “How bright it is in your eyes? How warm it is across your skin? How the leaves feel under your bare hands or how rough the bark is is against your bare skin? Those people that were humiliated? The ones that were _embarrassed?_ This isn’t helping them. This isn’t helping you. If this idea,” Kadar motioned back at the door, “really works, if this keeps people from losing their minds when they see you, don’t you think that’s better than this? You can’t hurt anyone if everyone is immune.”

Malik rolled his eyes at that.

“I’m only saying that, hope is scary but it’s important.” Then Kadar lapsed into silence like he was just going to stand there and wait for Malik to admit how right he was.

It was ironic how everything was simpler yesterday, when the only pressing question was whether or not Altair would still have feelings for him come morning. It was terrible weight on his shoulders, but it was straightforward and uncomplicated compared to _this_. 

Malik sighed.

“This isn’t going to work.” He made a wide gesture with his hand, “This isn’t--it’s not some kind of fairytale where the prince comes in, breaks the curse and somehow everything works out. That’s not how it works in real life. It’s never this---neat or tidy. That only happens in _stories_.”

“Okay, but Altair isn’t a prince. And if I’d told you five days ago that you were going to fall in love with him, you would have laughed yourself stupid. You would have said the exact same thing about how it doesn’t happen and it’s impossible.” Kadar shrugged, “I’m not saying you have to think it’s going to work. I’m just saying that it’s probably worth trying and if other people agree to do this it’s because they think so too.” 

There was a ‘but’ hovering at the tip of Malik’s tongue, but nothing to follow it up. He might have told Kadar that the two were entirely different, but if he were being honest with himself, he knew that wasn’t true. So he left it unsaid and only shook his head, “This is all your fault. You were the one who decided to hire him.” His voice was quiet and held only the pretense of an accusation.

A fact that Kadar could see through easily given the way Kadar only grinned, “Hey, you were the one who invited him back to the house. And, _I’d_ say it’s worked out pretty well for you so far.”

“So far.” Malik managed a smile briefly before, he sighed again, as he hunched forward, leaning his forearms against the railing. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Kadar slapped him on the back. “You can. Everyone believes in you.” It wasn’t much in the way of encouragement but it was the same brutish reassurance that Kadar had always offered. Things would work out (in Kadar’s estimation) because there was simply no other way for it to happen. “Also I don’t think your new boyfriend is going to let you back out now.”

Malik sighed. 

Kadar went back inside and Malik waited until he was gone and there was no danger of being seen before he stepped out onto the grass. Until the laundry dried, he had only the one layer of clothes to wear and he hadn’t seen a point in putting on the hood or gloves to eat dinner. He stepped across the underbrush that gathered between the trees and the back of his house. It crunched and snapped under his boots as he went toward the old scarred tree. The bark was pock marked with the places Kadar and he had broken it with their eager feet and now and again with the lines they’d tried to carve. He ran his thumb across one of the grooves that had been meant to be his name. The wood beneath the bark was smooth but the scaly bark was obnoxiously rough against the pads of his fingers. 

There was a small, _learned_ fear somewhere in the base of his gut. The fear of being found with his bare skin showing despite the fact that he was by his own house, in the dark, beyond the view of a casual traveller. 

By the time he went inside again, Altair had gone to bed (so said Mother). Kadar was talking to Mother about what to do with their new wealth of profits. Neither of them seemed to take any special awareness of him. Malik hovered in the kitchen with them for a moment, “I thought we should buy a pig,” he said, “or two.”

“We could buy a cow,” Kadar said. “Meat and milk!”

Mother laughed at the two of them. “Where would we put a cow? Who is going to clear out the field?”

Kadar made a grand protest about how he would do it that Malik didn’t stay to listen to. He went for his room, expecting to find Altair awake and was therefore shocked to see him asleep on the floor with a blanket and a pillow. He was sleeping too soundly to bother him (about how the bed was perfectly serviceable) so Malik laid on his bed and stared at the darkness over his head until he fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Altair and Malik managed to make it out of the room for breakfast (at Malik’s insistence) before anyone had to come get them. Apart from that one deviation from how his mornings usually went, everything else was surprisingly normal from the food to when they left the house and headed for the cart.

Then there was George the baker headed for their cart as they set up when usually he’d be at the bakery, making sure the morning’s first batch of bread were made to his specifications.

“Good morning, boys.” He nodded at them, but it was clear from the way his eyes kept straying to Altair what this was about even before he asked, “So is it true? He’s really immune?”

“Yes. So is my Mother and Kadar, apparently.” 

George scratched his head, “But how? Your Mother mentioned it, but this has never happened before.”

What was it Altair had said?

“He said it took consistent exposure to me.” He did not add the part about seeing him as a person. It didn’t seem like a good idea to accuse one of the people who’s always been kind to him of treating him like a thing.

“So we’d have to keep looking at you? Without all this…” He gestured at Malik or rather, at his clothes. Malik nodded and wasn’t entirely sure why he was the one stuck answering these questions while Altair set up his workspace and Kadar started putting the pieces on display. The Plan wasn’t even his idea in the first place.

“You don’t have to do this.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think about them.

George gave him a long look before he huffed a short laugh. “I know.” Then he jerked a thumb in Altair’s direction, “Mind if I talk to your beau for a moment?”

Malik sputtered, “He’s not--” Then he cut himself off because George wasn’t wrong. He wondered if Mother had told him or if they were just that (embarrassingly) transparent. Even with the hood hiding his blush, he still turned his head away, “Yeah. Just...don’t take anything he says too personally. He means well.”

Altair had (over)heard most of the conversation that led to Malik coming over to tell him that George (the baker) wanted to talk to him. He left his tools laying out on his work table and wiped his hands against his thighs. Talking to people had never (exactly) been one of his strong suits. Usually he stared at them until they were uncomfortable and then they left. “Uh,” he said to George (the baker), “yes? What can I do for you?”

“You’re immune to him?” George asked. “I can see his own Mother and brother developing that kind of immunity but, son there have been over a hundred people--more than that--that have been driven crazy by that curse. I just don’t know that I believe it can be overcome.”

Well, wasn’t that unsurprising. “Have you ever seen a really beautiful girl? Do you like girls?” And George nodded and briefly explained - _women_ \- before Altair continued. “So have you ever seen a girl, not a full grown woman but a girl that’s just starting to become a real grown woman. She’s got supple breasts and clear skin and she’s _beautiful_ , untouched and so purely sexually attractive that you can’t help but thinking about what it would be like to have her for the night or for a wife?” Altair stared at George while he looked shame-faced and pink-cheeked about the image that Altair painted. “It’s okay, George. I know you’d never touch her.”

“I wouldn’t,” George said.

“Of course you wouldn’t. That girl is a person, just a girl, someone’s daughter. It would be wrong to treat her like a commodity. So you have that feeling when you see her and maybe you jerk off at night thinking about it but you don’t act on it.” 

George looked sideways at Malik (who was trying hard not to look like he was listening. But not even the hood could hide how his head was cocked to hear every word). There was a heavy, heavy sigh that made his shoulders heave up and down. “I understand what you’re saying,” he said, “how long did it take?”

“About five days,” Altair said. “It was worse in the beginning for me. It was easier the more I talked to him. Maybe for you it’ll be easier. You already know him; you know his family.”

There was shame on George’s face again. He shuffled his feet in the dirt. “I know you stole bread from me when you came to town,” he said, “I expect if you’re making an honest man out of yourself here that you’ll keep your hands in your pockets from now on, hmm?” Then George was calling a greeting to the brothers before he headed away toward his bakery.

“Well,” Kadar said as pulled out the next box of pieces to be set out, “That went well.” Malik nodded, but it was clear (even with the hood) that he wasn’t even looking at Kadar who put a hand on Malik’s back and nudged him towards where Altair had returned to work. “If you want to talk to him, you should probably do it now. You know, before customers start arriving.” Malik’s face was hidden by his hood, but Kadar could feel the weight of his glare when Kadar said, “just don’t drag him off somewhere. He actually needs to get some work done, today.”

Malik rolled his eyes at his brother as Kadar made shooing motions with his hand before turning (pointedly) back to what he had been doing.

There was a moment where Malik hesitated before he walked over to Altair’s work table.

“Is there anyone you haven’t stolen from?”

Altair made a show of thinking about that. “You and your family, I suppose.”

Malik raised his brow, “The first day we met--”

“That didn’t count.” He pointed the tool in his hand at Malik, “I returned what I took.”

From where Altair was sitting, he could look up and see Malik’s face. The hood cast it in shadows, but he could still make out the way his mouth was pressed into a line, like he was trying not to smile. Then Malik shook his head with a sigh and the expression was gone. He reached out and brushed the side of Altair’s face. “Don’t be too hard on them.”

“Why? Because of the curse? It affected me too, Malik, but I didn’t need to be told that I should respect your boundaries. At some point you and everyone else will need to stop using this curse as an excuse.”

It seemed ridiculous to Malik that the answer was as simple as that. It was impossible, simply _inconceivable_ that it could be as easy as that when years of his life had been ruined by this curse (and maybe that was why it made him angry, to know that the answer was there, but everyone had been too blind to see it).

Altair sighed. “I’ll try,” he said. But it was clear that the only reason he would put any effort into it at all was because he felt it was important to Malik. His disdain for the villagers was evident in the aggravation that tightened in his body. 

Malik nodded his thanks and left Altair to get started on his work.

\--

Over the course of the day, Altair was visited two more times by curious villagers that were trying to work out if they wanted to believe the insane plan that was proposed to them. Mary Dare had come in the afternoon when the sun was oppressively high in the sky and Malik had retreated to the shadowed safety of the cart. Altair expected her to repeat the same as the others (George the Baker and Jala who taught at the school) but Mary Dare didn’t insinuate it was impossible but quietly say, “did it feel like your heart was breaking? I remember my future husband told me that getting over Malik was the worst feeling in the world. He said he’d rather have both of his feet broken than ever feel anything like that again.”

Altair couldn’t fault someone for being afraid of pain. Fearless though he liked to believe himself to be, he was still as scared of unnecessary pain as any other man. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and licked it away from his lips while he tried to work out a response that didn’t condemn her for being stupid. “No,” he said. “At first it feels like falling, there is a sensation that you cannot control. When he catch your breath, you have this need in your whole body to have him. Like--being hungry but being told not to eat. But it goes away. You start to see him as he is, just another person, and the feeling that you have to _possess_ him wanes. Absent genuine feelings, by the end, it feels like nothing.”

Mary Dare bit her lip, “how do you know the difference between genuine feelings and the curse?”

“The curse is selfish, it doesn’t care about anything but getting what it wants. Genuine feelings aren’t.” Honestly, it was a question that Altair was tired of answering. It was one that these people should have learned in infancy. Still, Mary Dare was looking like it was a revelation as she cocked her head toward the cart. Altair wondered what influence this one had on anyone when she hardly seemed to be able to influence herself. 

“Alright,” Mary Dare said. “Thank you.” Then she left again. 

Altair pulled the gloves off his sweat-slicked hands and looked over at Kadar who seemed to have wilted in place at the end of the cart. “Can we close early? I don’t think anyone is coming to see us in this heat.”

Kadar’s hair was so wet it was sticking to his head and he drew in a breath and let it out again. “Sure, we can go swimming. I’m sure Malik needs to cool off.” Then he dragged himself up to start putting away the displays. 

Altair finished packing his tools away first (because they would not break if he were not careful when putting them away), and he took them with him when he went into the cart to get Malik.

The walls and roof of the cart afforded protection against the sun beating on them overhead, but it was still unbearably warm on the inside. Malik sat, with his legs stretched out and his back against one of the walls with his hood down. He cracked his eyes open when the door to the cart squeaked open, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” He mumbled, “but don’t touch me.” Even just the thought of contact with another heat producing body seemed to make the headache pounding away at his skull worse.

“Your brother said we should go swimming.” Altair said as he left his tools in a corner, before moving closer to Malik with a frown.

“Did you tell him you can’t swim? You should learn to swim. It’s ridiculous that you don’t know how.” Despite his protest earlier, he doesn’t do much besides grunt when Altair smooths a hand over his flushed cheek. “My head hurts.”

Altair sighed and plucked at the outermost layer of Malik’s clothes. “Do you have to wear this? At this rate, I think you’re going to get heat stroke before we make it to the river.”

“I’ll be fine.” He was still mumbling, but he batted away Altair’s hand and pushed himself away from the wall and into standing. Malik pulled his hood over his head and asked, “do you need help packing up?” Even though he didn’t really want to do anything besides lie down somewhere cool. The thought of swimming in the river was growing more attractive by the minute.

“No.” Altair said, “just go sit in the shade somewhere while we get everything inside.”

To which Malik only nodded (in relief) before exiting the cart.

It didn’t take that long to finish packing up the cart. Kadar locked it while Altair went to find Malik leaning against a tree. They were far too close to civilization for him to make a convincing argument for stripping away some of the layers of clothing (and Altair had the feeling that he wouldn’t get a second chance to make that argument). So rather than suggesting it immediately he said, “let's go. You brother can catch up.” Rather than travel in a loop through the trees back to the road that led to Malik’s house (the way they usually did) he motioned them forward. The forest was not thick here, it broke on both sides as it came close to farms and other houses. But the shade was at least beneficial and the straight path between the cart and the house that the trees provided meant less time spent bundled up in layers. 

“Are you alright?” Altair asked.

“I told you I’m fine,” Malik said.

They kept walking until Kadar ran up behind them. He had stripped off his shirt and was carrying it in one fist while he wiped sweat away from his forehead. “You need to take some of that off,” Kadar said. “I don’t want to carry you home again.” 

Malik made a growling sound. 

“We’re past the Leary’s place, nobody is going to see you,” Kadar protested. “Stop being stupid. Keep the hood, take off some of the shirts.” He didn’t wait for Malik to follow direction (or even argue the point with him) but stepped up to start jerking apart the buttons on the shirts. He thrust the first layer at Altair when it was off and then went to work on the next set of buttons while Malik stood there with his head tipped back. “Stay conscious,” Kadar said. “I really don’t want to carry you.”

It took a good five minutes to reduce Malik to two layers of shirts and divide up the may heavier layers (that were damp with sweat) between Kadar and Altair. They went past the house just long enough to drop the clothes on the porch and then kept walking (at a pace slow enough for Malik to keep up) until they got to the bank of the river. 

“I love swimming,” Kadar said. He stripped out of his pants without a second’s pause and jumped into the cool water. He floated in the lazy current a minute. “Come on, Malik.”

Malik was slower at removing his own clothes but he managed it at last. Everywhere on his body was red from the trapped heat of his clothes and his hair was stuck to his forehead with tacky sweat. “How cold is it?” Rather than jump in like his brother, he waded in a little and found a reliable looking patch of shore to sit on. 

“Pour water in his hair,” Kadar said. He rolled over onto his belly in the water and swam closer. “Like this.” Then he scooped up the water in his hands as Malik leaned forward and let Kadar pour the water through his sweat-flattened hair. “It’s not that cold,” he said.

Altair stripped and went down into the water (which wasn’t that cold) to take over for Kadar. Malik made discontented noises about the chill. “Maybe tomorrow you should stay at the house,” he said, “Your brother and I can manage to set up the cart without you.”

“I’ll think about it.” Malik said because being out of this heat sounded wonderful, but the idea of doing nothing did not sit well with him.

\--

It was still warm when they left the river behind, but the water still clinging to their skin and hair kept their bodies cool enough that they shivered when they first started making their way back.

Malik felt more like a functioning human being after the swim and his voice was thoughtful and clear when he said, “You really think this will work.” It was not a question because Malik had been listening in before the heat had driven him into the cart.

“I do.”

Malik nodded to that. It was nothing he hadn’t known. It was clear even before that Altair did believe it to be possible, but Malik was still only just now warming up to the idea.

So he was hesitant when he said, “it’d be nice if--” Then he stopped, biting his lip briefly before he tried again with, “I don’t like getting heatstroke. I threw up last time...it was disgusting.”

Kadar nodded, “You smelled terrible.” (Which hadn’t been as important back when Kadar had been half-convinced his brother was _dying_.)

“It’ll be easier to avoid if you’re wearing less.” There was a blindspot created by Malik’s hood, but he didn’t need to look to know that Altair was most likely smiling.

Malik only nodded. He was unable to drum up the same conviction Altair had about their chances of success, but the heat had been incentive enough to make him want to try.

Kadar made a noise like a groan of disgust before he sprinted forward to meet up in the space between them. “So my love life has also improved in the past couple of days. While I didn’t find a flower to give to my sweetheart, I did manage to convince her to meet me for lunch this week and since I’m so charming and--”

“Someone’s at our house,” Malik said. He cut off the words even as Kadar was in the middle of finishing them. He’d put the hood back on simply because he didn’t want to have to carry it the whole way to the house but his shirt sleeves were rolled up his arms and none of the buttons were done-up on his shirt. It hadn’t occurred to him that he should be worried about people arriving unannounced as it had _never happened_. He stopped moving and Kadar walked another three steps before he registered what had been said.

“Maybe it’s the people Mother’s been talking to,” Kadar said. “I’ll go ask.”

Altair was hovering in the space between Kadar and Malik, indecisively shifting his weight from staying and going. Before he could decide, Kadar jogged forward toward the house and called a greeting to the man standing on their porch. The clothes that they had left lying there had been moved and the door was left open. (It was, most likely, Mother’s attempt to warn him of visitors.) Malik was too busy squinting into the distance to make out which man it was talking to Kadar to pay attention to where Altair was putting his hands. He was shocked by the touch of a hand around his (shocked that he’d forgotten to put his gloves on) but his fingers squeezed around Altair’s as soon as they were threaded through his.

There was nothing left to be said at this point (any questions or arguments had already been asked or stated by now), so they said nothing as they waited for Kadar to come back.

The minutes it took for Kadar to finish talking to the man and return to where they were felt longer than it actually was. An uneasy feeling settled in Malik’s gut when Kadar said there was a group who wanted to go through with this that made his answering nod jerky and mechanical (and made his grip on Altair’s hand tighten).

\--

Malik recognized the people who were gathered around their porch. There were the three who had visited them at the cart earlier in the day, and then there was also Frank Herbert (whose wife has stayed out of this, presumably, so that at least one of them would still be fit to run the inn in case it was necessary) and, to Malik’s surprise, Old Greavy.

The uneasy feeling hadn’t gone away, and he’d been asked (by Altair of all people) if he needed to wait a moment. Malik was sure waiting would only make it _worse_ , so he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and headed back towards the house.

He did not let go of Altair’s hand for even a moment.

It was hard to be certain what expression (exactly) was the worst one as Malik finally got close enough to clearly see the faces of the people that had consented to try this insane idea. Mary Dare had her mouth covered with her hand but her eyes were wide open as she looked unblinkingly at his bare chest. George-the-baker was caught between shame and fear when he looked solidly at Malik’s whole body (not seeming to focus on any one spot of bare skin). Old Greavy had a film of tears in her eyes but an iron-hard resolve in her body as she looked at him. Jala was looking at his hands with a sorrowful look of _actual pain_ while Frank Herbert looked caught between the urge to hurl and laugh and couldn’t seem to look up from Malik’s bare hands. 

“Thank you,” Malik said. 

Kadar, who was close enough to bother, pulled his hood back so his face was completely exposed. Every one of the poor bastards that was falling to the curse looked at his face and all the individual real expressions faded away to show only one solid, reliable expression of _dreary unreal love_. “Mom made dinner but we have to move a few of our tables so we have enough space for everyone.” Kadar motioned toward the house. 

Altair moved first. He put himself between Malik and the newcomers but didn’t give up his hold on Malik’s hand.

“Oh,” Mary Dare whispered, “I didn’t think it would be like this. Its just so much stronger than I thought.”

“Think of your future husband,” George-the-baker said. “I’m thinking about that Atlas, the dumb kid that burns my bread once a day. I don’t like him but I can’t fire him because he’s my sister’s nephew.”

Altair grit his teeth but Malik pulled at his arm to keep him moving toward the kitchen. “They should be thinking about _you_ ,” he said. “That’s weak.”

“Give them time,” Malik said. Then he looked down at his poor state of dress and shifted his weight. “Can I put a shirt on? Does it matter how much skin I’m showing?”

“You can put a shirt on,” Altair said. He said the words in the direction of the front porch where the gathering of pitiful voices were comparing chest pains and side stories about how they could distract themselves from the sudden urge to lay claim to Malik’s heart (or body. He had not expected it to be Jala-the-schoolteacher that was hit with a sudden lust for him). “You should go do that while we move the tables.”

“Don’t start a fight,” Malik said softly before he went. 

\--

Dinner was awkward from the moment Malik had to choose where to sit and five pairs of eyes were immediately focused on him. All of them looked away with varying levels of embarrassment and shame, but there was no mistaking that they were disappointed when Malik chose a seat between his brother and Altair.

Frank Herbert even opened his mouth as if to argue, but closed it, ducked his head and muttered something polite about the food before taking a seat.

Food seemed to be the topic everyone latched onto and they kept talking about it long after they’d run out of things to say and it devolved to everyone making unspecific sounds of agreement when Mary Dare made a vague comment about the potatoes (while trying not to look at Malik at all).

 

Altair’s expression became increasingly stormy as they continued and just when Malik was about to warn him (again) not to start anything, Mother cleared her throat.

“George,” She said, and George looked up from where he had been carefully studying his plate with a look not unlike a small animal that had been cornered, “do you remember that year when Malik went to buy a cake from you for my birthday? What was it he said to you back then? I can’t really remember.”

At the question, George’s head turned briefly to stare at Malik. Everyone had stopped eating and there was a hush that fell over the table. George licked his lips a little then put his fork down and said slowly, “he said it wasn’t fair that you never got a cake. Cause he and his brother always got cake on their birthday, but he doesn’t know how to make one.”

Malik did remember the incident (if only vaguely), though he couldn’t remember where the resolution to get his Mother a cake had come from, exactly.

Mother nodded with a smile, “but he didn’t have any money of his own back then.” 

George laughed at that, like ruminating over a fond memory. He looked at Malik and didn’t flinch away from eye contact. He said, “you were a small kid, you couldn’t have been more than six or seven. I remember that one,” he motioned at Kadar, “was still a baby and you came marching into my shop asking me for a cake for your Mother. I said, I didn’t make cakes without getting paid because it was bad for business. You said you would work to earn the money if I gave you a job for a few days.” He laughed again. “So I gave you the same job I give all the new boys that work for me. You had to move the sacks of flour. They were bigger than you.”

Jala laughed at that too. “I remember when you were that small,” she said. “And so _stubborn_. I remember you sat at your desk in the school and wouldn’t go to recess until you finished your sums. You wouldn’t move no matter what I said.”

Mary Dare (who was much closer to Malik’s age than the others) said, “I don’t really remember you before the curse. I remember you left school for a while and everyone said that you’d spit on a fairy. I thought you must be _crazy_ to have spit on a fairy but all the girls knew you did it to save your brother. We thought you were the bravest thing.”

But that hadn’t lasted long. By the time Malik went back to school, the village had already become aware of the curse. They had spread the knowledge like a virus through their children and families, until it was common knowledge (early on) that Malik couldn’t be looked at. He hadn’t figured out the right combination of clothes to prevent accidents for a few months after that. Nobody had come to play with him on the playground and no girls had ever told him how brave he must have been. 

Frank Herbert stopped eating and looked over at George. “I think I remember watching him try to move those bags of flour too. We had a bet going that he’d give up, remember?”

George nodded. “That’s right we did! You were sure he’d give up. I was sure he’d give up but he didn’t.” 

“Huh,” Mary whispered. She reached across the table and ran her fingers across the back of Malik’s knuckles. The touch was a surprise, the way all naked touches across his skin was. She looked at his fingers under hers and then pulled her hand back. There was a sad kind of smile on her face as she turned and looked at Altair. “I think you’re right. I can tell the difference now.”

Altair nodded to acknowledge that he heard her. He did not return her smile, but the hostility on his face and in his posture melted away as everyone began trading stories about Malik as a child (and it was unsurprising for him to hear that Malik’s bull-headedness had been a constant aspect of his personality his whole life).

“I know some of the boys offered to help him, but he always said no.” George shook his head with a chuckle.

“He was always such a responsible child.” Old Greavy said to her plate. Then she tentatively looked up at Malik, “I remember you always wanted to help your Mother carry everything when she came to the store to buy things. You always made this face when she only allowed you to carry what was light enough for you. You were so proud when you were big enough to carry your brother around.”

As the stories (many of them embarrassing, especially the ones Kadar could remember and add his own recollections to) went on, there came a point where almost everyone was laughing. Malik couldn’t remember the last time any of these people had laughed like this in his presence. They looked at him during this dinner (often to ask him if he remembered this or that), more than they normally do during a whole year and it wasn’t the crazed look of lust or love that he had grown used to. They still tripped up. Now and again, Jala stared a bit too long or Frank Herbert stopped speaking halfway through a sentence, but it became fewer as the night wore on and they recovered faster each time.

Altair did not make any mention of him being right, but he was smiling and it wasn’t quite gloating, but he was obviously pleased with himself. It should be obnoxious, but Malik was still trying to come to terms with the fact that it seemed to be _working_ to be annoyed.

They were still talking at the table long after the food was finished. The current group was reluctant to leave, but Mother didn’t say anything about the hour until Frank Herbert stood up.

“Well. It’s late.” He stalled for a moment like he didn’t actually want to leave, before shaking his head, “There’s a lot of work to be done and I can’t leave it all to my wife.”

Everyone followed suit, standing up even if they wanted to stay (and some, like Mary Dare, very much seemed as if they did not want to go) before excusing themselves with little commitments. Malik walked them out to the door (because it seemed polite) and stood on the porch as they walked past him out into the dreary darkness. 

Widow Greavey was the last to leave. She took her hand in his, the leathery age of her palms across the back of his hand was an unusual texture but the grip was soft. There was something like tears in her eyes, making them seem bright even in the dimness. “We shouldn’t have been so blind,” is what she said (but it wasn’t what he expected). “You were always a good kid, Malik.” Then she patted him on the arm and stepped down to join Frank Herbert who had agreed to see her back home safely. 

Inside, the air was cautious with joy. Malik stood away from the table, caught between a violent happiness (that this _might_ work) and exhaustion that seemed too large to properly explain. He rubbed his hand through his hair as he let out a breath and said, “I’m going to bed, I think.”

“Of course, dear,” Mother said.

“Good night,” Kadar said. Then he motioned toward the back of the house. “I think he went to climb trees or something. He said to tell you he’d be back in a minute.” 

Altair most likely need the time away after being trapped with such a large group but there was a spot of hurt in Malik’s chest to find him gone anyway. He carried that with him as he went to his room to sit on his bed and think about the many other things that he couldn’t make sense of. 

There was no point in thinking about how all of his life might have been shaped differently if anyone had taken the time to figure out the difference between compulsion and truth before. That was a bitter bite in the center of his growing hope. He was still young enough that he couldn’t make any claims toward the whole of his life being ruined but so much of it (for so long) had been shaped by this curse. The pointlessness of those lost years and the guilt and doubt and shame that he’d carried around churned up like anger in his belly. 

He didn’t even realize that he’d worked himself to tears until they hit his bare hands and that made him angrier. There had been more than enough tears shed over this stupid curse over the years. He didn’t need to waste any more of them on people who hadn’t ever tried to find a way to help him. The thought rattled and knocked inside his skull until he picked up a book and threw it. It hit the wall with a resonating thud and landed on the ground in a flurry of open pages. 

The door opened a minute later (or two, or some longer time that was lost in the storm of Malik’s anger, the tight clench of his hands in his own hair and the adamant but failing desire not to cry) and he expected his brother. It wasn’t Kadar’s hands that touched his curled-tight fingers. It wasn’t Kadar that pulled them out of his hair or pushed and prodded at him until he was sitting back on the bed. 

Altair put his knees on the bed on either side of Malik’s body and sat in his lap with his arms looped around Malik’s shoulders. He rested his cheek against his temple. “I’m sorry,” he said. There was no context for it, no need for _him_ to be sorry. Yet the words (spoken so quietly) and the smooth hand going down his back, the one that was rubbing the sore spots along his scalp, they broke his resolve to keep from crying. Malik pressed his hands to Altair’s back and cried against his chest and couldn’t even find enough shame left to worry about the scene he was making.

Malik’s breathing became ragged, hitching repeatedly whenever he inhaled until it made his shoulders shake. It was as uncomfortable as the sting of tears in his eyes and the warmth that meant they were likely going to be swollen, but once he started it felt like he could no longer _stop_. All he could do was pull Altair closer, as if it could somehow make up for the years of isolation.

His hands were tight fists at Altair’s back, tangled in the fabric of his shirt, while Altair’s hand rubbed gentle circles over his back and over his shoulders. His other hand cupped the back of Malik’s head and his shoulders were hunched slightly as if to shield him. They stayed like that until Malik’s head felt stuffy from crying and his sobs petered off into noisy breathing.  
That he probably looked like a mess was enough of an excuse for Malik to not move from where he still had his face pressed against Altair’s chest. In the aftermath, Malik was acutely aware that he should be embarrassed for the display just now, but couldn’t make himself care when he felt hollowed out and exhausted.

Altair’s hand was still moving over Maliks back and he let himself shut his eyes and simply enjoy the feeling of being held, the way he could feel Altair’s body heat even through his shirt and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

“Hey,” Altair said, his hand resting on Malik’s jaw and attempting to coax Malik into tilting his head up, “Are you all right?”

Malik only pushed his face against Altair’s shirt harder, tilting his head down and refusing to show his face at all. “Yeah.” He took a steadying breath to help with the way the stutter in his breathing made his words jump when he spoke, “just tired. I didn’t mean to...do that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Altair stroked Malik’s hair.

Despite the acute pain in his eyes and the fuzzy kind of pain stuffing up his pain, Malik felt exhausted in a way that was all at once overwhelming. He was yawning even as he tried to wipe his face with the back of his hand and Altair tipped far enough away from him to look at him with a hint of worried amusement. “I said I was tired,” Malik said. Every word was a yawn.

“Me too,” Altair agreed. “We need to sleep.” 

They did a sloppy job of getting ready for bed and an awkward job of laying next to one another. Malik spent a moment marinating in the awkward feeling that Altair was most likely going to leave as soon as he was asleep coupled with the slim width of the bed doing a poor job providing enough space for both of them. He was half full of worry about being abandoned (and maybe working around to expressing it) when he fell asleep.

\--

The simple truth was that there had never been anyone in the whole of the world who needed Altair.

Up until now, he had lived his life secure in the knowledge that there wasn’t a single soul that depended on him for anything be it money, shelter or security. So he hadn’t quite taken what Mother had said about Malik needing his support entirely seriously.

Their sleeping arrangement was uncomfortable for more reasons than just the lack of physical space, yet, Altair stayed there long after Malik had gone to sleep, thinking about the way Malik had clung to him earlier (while avoiding the thought of what expression Malik might make if Altair were to leave).

\--

Malik was not surprised to wake up alone or that the spot beside him was already cold. He lay there for a moment and reminded himself all the ways this wasn’t personal even as his hand curled in the sheets and he let out a sigh. 

When the disappointment was no longer a crushing weight in his chest, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed to stand up. He was preoccupied with disappointment and rubbing a hand through his hair to work out the early-morning tangles and so he did not look down until he had already put half his weight on the body laying on the ground in front of him. 

“Ow,” interrupted Malik’s attempt to stand and knocked him back to sitting on the bed. He looked down between his feet to find Altair rubbing at the side of his forearm. There was a sleep print on the side of his face from how he’d been laying on his other arm. The tangle of the sheet he’d stolen from Malik’s bed was around his legs. 

“Why are you down there?” Malik asked.

Rather than answer, Altair sat up far enough to grab Malik by the hips and dragged him down. He followed the motion with as much elegance as he could manage, until he was straddling Altair’s hips. His guilt (and the worry at being left) was fading in favor of a warm embarrassment. Altair laid back again, put an arm behind his head and rested his other hand on Malik’s thigh. “Your bed is too small.”

“Oh,” Malik said. He shifted his weight so it was settled more easily on his knees. He let his own hands tug at the folds in Altair’s shirt. “And why am I _here_?”

“I was cold.” That was a clear lie. Altair reached up to tug at one of the buttons of the shirt Malik slept in. “And hurt.” He undid a second button with his thumb and his first finger and looked comically surprised to have managed it. 

“I’m not a blanket.” He leaned down so his elbows were against the floor on either side of Altair and the buttons of his shirt were no longer so easily accessible. While that stopped Altair from pursuing the removal of his shirt, it apparently gave him perfect-easy-access to push a hand down the back of his waistband to squeeze his ass. “Smooth.”

Altair smiled. “And _charming_.” Then he lifted his head up far enough to kiss Malik and there was really no purpose in denying him something that would improve both of their days.

Malik raked his fingers through Altair’s hair as they kissed, enjoying the rumble of approval Altair made. He had slept well, but the outburst from the night before left him unable to feel entirely well rested. He wanted to have a moment where he didn’t have to think.

Yet, as Altair pulled back to nuzzle along his neck, Malik was struck by the sudden thought that, if he hadn’t been cursed would they be here now like this (doing something as ridiculous as making out on the floor of all places)?

It wasn’t a question that brought any measure of peace or made any of what happened suddenly better (but the thought of not having this seemed unbearable in its own way).

There was a light nip at his throat followed by, “I feel like I should be offended.” Altair leaned back with a frown, “What is it?”

“Nothing important.” But, since something was expected, “if we get a larger bed, will you sleep on it?”

Altair’s response was first to roll Malik onto his back. He was grinning when he did it, clearly impressed with his own deftness. “It would be easier,” he said, “I would be more likely to.” He kissed Malik’s throat and down to his chest. His teeth were blunt and hard in little nips and larger bites. “I thought we were doing something.”

Malik hooked both his legs around Altair’s back and pulled him down. “We were,” he said.


	9. Chapter 9

Breakfast was nearly the same as dinner the night before. The first notable difference was the sigh of noise that interrupted the start when Malik first walked into the room to find them there. Jala, especially, seemed to be agitated at having been kept waiting for the chance to see him. But after the initial meeting, they all settled back into the odd habit of telling stories. 

Partway through Frank Herbert’s retelling of the first man they had to lock up in the inn (the one who couldn’t be convinced to stop pulling up Mabel Duval’s prized orchids to give him), Malik noticed Mary Dare staring at him, looking disappointed and sad.

He paused mid-bite and, with a jolt, remembered the mark Altair had made, high on his neck. It hadn’t seem much of a problem when he was sucking it onto Malik’s skin or even afterwards, when he thumbed over it while Malik lay there feeling sated and boneless.

Malik was so used to being covered from head to toe (and distracted by the vague dread of having to face these people after last night), that he hadn’t put any special thought into covering it up.

Clapping a hand over the incriminating mark was reflexive and not sensible, and Malik’s flush only deepened when everyone turned to look at him when he did it.

He might have said there was a bug, but the lie was betrayed by the way Malik had held his hand to his neck for too long. He thought back to the times when more than one person had fallen under the curse at the same time and their assertions that they will not allow Malik to be stolen from them. It wasn’t uncommon for fights to break out (even if none of them had been as dramatic as the duel to the death for his hand in marriage that nearly happened).

He could excuse himself from the table and find a--a scarf or something (anything) to cover up his neck. Malik did not want to spend the money they earned replacing broken furniture. Extracting himself from the situation would have been the wisest course of action and before all of this it was exactly what he would have done.

Except a week ago, he wouldn’t have been in this situation. He wouldn’t have let anyone kiss him or sleep beside him or see him without his hood on (let alone naked). A week ago, the curse was still hanging over him like a life-sentence and no one had ever told him it wasn’t his fault.

Malik lowered his hand with more outward confidence than he felt. His Mother—only one set of eyes that was staring at him—smiled ever so faintly on one side of her mouth before she recommenced eating as if nothing had happened. Kadar (wedged into the side of the table) was smirking down at his plate. It was only Altair, to his side, that was showing any overt sign of aggression.

Jala’s eyebrows pulled down into a terrible furl of anger even as her hands tightened on the silverware in her hands. The very last thing he needed to see in his life was his old teacher fighting his (lover? Boyfriend?) but he was pretty sure that it was inevitable at that moment.

“Well,” George said. He had a fork in one hand and his half-eaten breakfast forgotten on his plate. While the others were working through a variety of embarrassed and shameful feelings, George just turned a faint pink color. “I think we were all trying not to notice that.”

“It’s impossible not to notice,” Kadar said back. He motioned at Malik’s neck as if the mark were the only source of light in a dark room. Then he looked back at them with a sad shake of his head, his incredulity rushing out of his mouth in a sigh. “You’re all adults. I’m reasonably sure you’ve all had sex. It’s not even a big deal.”

“There is nothing,” Jala said. Her words were grating through her clenched teeth. She pushed her palms against the table rather than keep a stable grip on her silverware. “ _Reasonable_ about the way we—I am feeling. Even if I know it’s unreasonable, I still feel betrayed.”

“Fair enough,” Altair said. His voice was even (but his body was still tipped into attack mode). “You need to work through it. He’s a person. He made a choice. It wasn’t you.”

Jala sucked in a breath and for a moment she looked like she was going to grab the silverware again, this time with the intention of stabbing Altair with it. It felt (to Malik), like everyone was holding their breaths and simply _waiting_ to see what happened next (except Altair who only crossed his arms and looked unimpressed). Malik didn’t really notice the silence until Jala broke it when she pushed her chair back. She didn’t pick up anything, but the way she stood there with her jaw gritted was not that much more reassuring.

She frowned at Malik only briefly, then said, “excuse me for a minute.” like the words weren’t meant to be polite. The door slammed shut behind her and it was so uncharacteristic of the woman who used to reprimand students for doing the same that Malik had trouble wrapping his head around it.

Altair was the first to go back to eating (once he was satisfied no one else would be trying anything), but it was Frank Herbert who started the discussion up again, starting with an awkward, “where was I again…?” as if anyone were still interested in the story at this point.

They made a good show of being interested (anyway). Old Greavy mumbled, “you had just finished saying how you had to have someone holding the door closed.” Frank Herbert snapped his fingers at that, and continued his explanation of how the room at the inn had come to have three sets of locks and bars on the windows.

\--

Jala never came back to breakfast, but when Malik walked the others to the door (while they thanked him again and ran their hands over his and stared at his face and acted very much like noble-hearted but ultimately suffering saints) Jala was sitting on the porch. She didn’t move even after the others tried to coax her to join. Malik stepped off the porch and looked at her. “He said it was easier if you talked about it.”

She looked up at him, the flat misery of her expression a poor cover for the basic sort of lust that made her eyes bright. Jala had been a pretty enough young woman, was still a pretty woman (if Malik were interested in that sort of thing) but raw desire changed the features of her face into something vapid. “I don’t care what he says.” But her hands pressed against her lap and she let out a breath through her nose. “I don’t understand why I feel this way--the others don’t. Why _me_? I’ve never thought about you like this before. I don’t want to do it now but I could have stabbed him in the face, I want you so much it _hurts_.”

Telling her that the curse targeted whatever was more important to the person at the moment didn’t feel like something that would help. Instead, he just said, “I’m sorry.”

The sound Jala made was caught between a sigh and a snort. “I didn’t want your apology.” She said and what that meant, exactly, she didn’t elaborate on. She watched him for a moment in that way she did when a student had asked her an unexpected question that needed a delicate answer. It occurred to Malik that it had been years since they had spoken face-to-face like this. Jala seemed to weigh her words carefully before she asked, “Are you happy?”

Malik didn’t say ‘yes’ because it was far too certain an answer when he had no idea where things were going to go and when his feelings about everything seemed to be in constant flux. But he nodded because the suffocating misery that he had accepted as inevitable suddenly _wasn’t_.

Jala’s expression was complicated, but her shoulders were pulled back and her hands folded neatly in her lap (even if they were gripped tight). “Because of him?”

There didn’t seem to be an answer that would resolve the situation. He couldn’t tell from Jala’s face (or her body language) what sort of answer she wanted, or what would help. While he wasn’t in the habit of telling people whatever they wanted to hear; he didn’t want to hurt her (more than the curse already was). Absent any idea of what to say that would help her, he was left trying to work out if he could attribute the dreadful feeling of hope (and the occasional bright spots of happiness) to Altair’s presence. “Because he showed me something I thought I couldn’t ever have.” 

That answer seemed to make Jala angry (possessive and ugly) and then sad. Her eyebrows softened and she stood up with a sad nod of her head. “Then I am happy for you.” She reached out a hand like she was going to touch him and then stopped, her hand hovered halfway to patting him on the arm. Her expression was a tight perplexed pinch. 

“It’s ok,” Malik said. He wasn’t even sure that it was okay. People had generally stopped touching him about the same time they had all adopted the habit of avoiding him at all costs. Accidental touches were generally accompanied by panic; but Jala pressed her hand against his arm and squeezed her hand around his bicep. Her face relaxed into a smile and he tried to mirror it. “Thank you for doing this.”

Jala had lost focus on the goal (leaving, hopefully) as her hand lingered on his arm. The door opened and Kadar came out with a loud-boasting sort of voice saying, “but we are going to make a killing today! You will see, Altair. I have this feeling today is the day we make more than we ever have before.”

Altair was rolling his eyes in almost the same way that Malik had every day he listened to Kadar’s projections for their daily business. They stomped down the stairs as Jala pulled away and motioned toward the road. Kadar said, “would you like someone to walk with you to the school, Jala?” 

She looked at Malik, but then she looked away and shook her head. “No. It’s all right. I’d rather walk by myself. But thank you.”

\--

The day was just as hot as it was yesterday so, despite Malik’s protests, he was told to stay home for the day.

Which proved to be a good idea not only because it helped him avoid heatstroke.

There were a few people gathered near their cart when Kadar and Altair arrived. Kadar made a gesture towards them as they walked and said, “See, what did I tell you? There are people already.”

Altair had no real proof that they weren’t customers, but he had been a thief long enough that he’s learned to trust his instincts. There was no indication they were there to cause trouble, but Altair was less optimistic about things than Kadar who was already jogging over to the cart. They looked at Kadar when he called to them, but their attention seemed to immediately fall onto Altair after that in a way that wasn’t at all reassuring.

“--that’s the guy?” was the tail end of a question Altair caught as he approached the cart. It was followed by, “the one who says he’s immune?”

“Well,” Kadar was saying when Altair came to a stop not so far from him. He might have gotten closer but the tense shifting of the crowd seemed to imply space would be beneficial to him. “It’s not so much that he says that he’s immune.” Kadar had his hands up in some attempt at proving his innocence and his lack of threat. 

“ _Nobody_ is immune,” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

“That’s not true, Kadar’s immune.” There was a chorus of nods to reassure themselves that it was true. But the reassurance stopped at the confused-and-angry faces that were inching their way closer. One or two of the (men, always men) around the edges were glaring at Altair like they were waiting for the excuse to start something. 

“No I wasn’t,” Kadar said. His voice (placating and soft) turned into hard _fact_ at the words. “ _Neither_ was our Mother. Nobody has ever been immune to this curse at first sight. But we became immune. It doesn’t last forever--it doesn’t even last a full week. It lasts five days and then it’s done and however you felt about my brother before you’ll feel about him after.”

“That’s bullshit,” was a triumphant declaration.

“I saw Frank Herbert in the inn! He wasn’t immune to anything.”

“Five days,” Kadar said again. But the crowd moved forward like a beast lurching, a swell of voices were all talking one-over-the-other making a great cacophony of noise, each telling another story about how Malik had wronged them. The curse had ruined their life!

Altair threw the bag of glass bits that he’d brought from the house over toward the cart and reached over his head to pull his shirt off. (There was no sense in ruining a perfectly good shirt.) He tossed it the way he tossed the glass chips. “You’re all cowards!” he shouted at them. “Too selfish and petty to see what’s obvious! You blamed a _child_ for a _curse_ and you’re still blaming him because it’s easier than admitting you’re wrong!”

“What are you doing?” Kadar mouthed at him. The words weren’t even audible over the shrill sound of outrage coming from the crowd. There weren’t many of them. Less than twenty bodies, a good four of five of them were women. (And women were less likely to break into fighting in his experience.) Altair had faced far worse odds. So he reached out and grabbed Kadar by the shirt to shove him backward. “Look!” Kadar shouted, “talk to the people that agreed to try! They’ll tell you!” But his attempt at peacekeeping was ultimately useless. (And if that was because Altair blew a kiss at the outraged face of one of the men looking for an excuse to hit him, he couldn’t even pretend to be sorry.)

\--

Malik was reading (and pretending he didn’t hear Mother humming the Wedding March in the kitchen), when he heard loud footsteps thundering up the porch steps.

He looked up. There was a brief, but loud, thump and the door rattled, a sure sign that whoever was out there hadn’t quite managed to get the door open before they ran into it. He heard Kadar swearing right before the door was thrown open.

“Altair’s been arrested!”

Malik almost dropped his book, “What? _Why?_ ” He asked, not because he didn’t know of any reason but because he wasn’t sure which one it was. He put the book down as he ran through the list of things Altair could have been arrested for from theft to vandalism (to nearly stripping Malik naked the night of the festival), “Kadar, _what happened_?”

“There was a fight. Some of the villagers were saying people can’t become immune.”

“Who did he fight?”

Shame and guilt sat heavy in his gut like a stone (all of Malik’s misfortunes could almost always be counted on to be related to the curse). Then it was replaced by shock when Kadar said, “All of them.”

Malik stared, “...what?”

“There had to be, like, fifty of them, Malik.” Now that he was paying attention there, in addition to the panic, was also a flush of _awe_ in Kadar’s expression. “And he fought the whole crowd! All of them at once!”

The idea of it, especially with the way Altair had whined about Sarah Keller, was so ridiculous that Malik couldn’t even think of a reply.

“And he won, Malik! You should have seen it. He punched Ewan Tanner so hard his teeth fell out!”

He was still staring at his brother when Mother took the book from his hands and pushed the thick outer layer into it.

Unlike Kadar, there was no twinkle of any sort in her eyes. She looked grim as she nodded towards the door.

“We should go speak to the Constable.” She said, like they were about to walk into a fight themselves.

\--

Mother had not walked the distance between their house and the Constables office (complete with a single jail cell used most commonly for holding drunken fools and husbands who got too handsy with their wives until good sense was restored). She hadn’t run precisely, but moved in a steady pace that seemed to be powered by a sense of righteousness that did nothing at all to calm Malik’s nerves. The whole while his Mother was striding her way toward demanding sensible justice, Malik was trying to figure out what sort of defense could be mounted on behalf of a public nuisance like Altair. 

Worst case scenario seemed to involve some manner of incarceration or banishment. Altair had broken enough laws (most of them small, most of the victims seemed amused, forgiving or lacking proof) that he could easily have been arrested for any number of things. The fact that he’d gone off and gotten himself arrested for fighting on Malik’s behalf against the many ignorant men that populated the town was far worse than getting picked up for stealing eggs from Silas (who would have sued by now if he had any proof). 

“Fifty guys?” Malik demanded sideways at Kadar (who was almost running to keep up with Mother). “How did he beat up fifty guys?” The number seemed impossibly high. While Malik wanted to believe his brother, either the number was too high or the retelling of Altair’s victory over so many was exaggerated. He couldn’t make up his mind if it would be worse for the situation that Altair had beaten up everyone or if it would be worse if he had failed and was a bleeding mess.

“Yeah,” Kadar assured him just before they reached the steps of the Constables office. 

Mother yanked the door open with concise violence and strode inside, the sharp rap of her heels echoed off the wood floors almost in perfect time with the scrape of the Constable’s chair and his voice (loud-and-undermined) saying, “now, _Arwa_ ,” like he was holding off a dragon.

Malik made it only far enough into the room to see Altair sitting (shirtless, smeared with blood all across his arms in wide-swipes) on a chair with his entire body angled in the most arrogant, aggressive, _relentlessly cocky_ manner any person could sit. His head was tipped to look up at Malik’s Mother with a soft smile catching at the edge of his smirk. The chain links between the shackles (that seemed cruelly tight on his wrists) jingled as Altair adjusted himself on the chair. 

Mother said, “release the boy, Cherry,” as if she had absolutely no intention of accepting any less.

“I can’t do that.” Constable Cherry’s voice was firm, but he took a step _back_ with his hands held up, “he’s being charged with disturbing the peace, theft, assault and vandalism.” He didn’t take his eyes off Mother as he reached pawed at his table top to pick up a sheet of paper. “It’s all written here.”

Mother took the paper. Her expression became increasingly unimpressed and stormy in a way that did not bode well for the Constable.

“I see.” She said when she was finally done reading, “on what grounds are you charging him with assault? According to my son,” She made a slight gesture to Kadar, “the other men threw the first punch.” 

“That doesn’t change the fact that he had been fighting.”

Mother’s silence was sharp as a knife as she looked at the assembled men (a few of which could not meet her eyes). There were not fifty of them, but there were more than ten when Malik counted them. Every one of them was worse off than Altair and Malik was too busy feeling a confusing mix of _relief_ and worry about the current state of things to take note of the detail that had his Mother glaring at the Constable like she wanted to set him on _fire_.

“If that is the reason, then why is he the only one in chains?” Her tone is even, but each word was full of enough _venom_ to kill a man.

Even Malik took a wary step back. He couldn’t even remember the last time Mother had been this angry.

The Constable also seemed completely taken aback by it.

“There’s still--”

“Disturbing the peace, theft and vandalism. Yes, about those,” Mother said, “where is your proof?”

Constable Cherry motioned at Altair as if his entire being were the only proof that was needed. The other men that were crowded against the walls (one of which was making low moaning noises now and again) were all nodding to themselves and Altair didn’t look innocent but clearly unimpressed with that logic. “He has stolen from everyone in town.”

“Are there witnesses?”

“Now Arwa, before the boy came to town, people weren’t having their things stolen and since he’s been here he’s been stealing--the night of the festival someone stole eggs from Silas and my house was egged.” (Malik managed to keep a perfectly neutral face which didn’t matter as much as the impressively disinterested stare that Altair maintained.) “Everyone knows what he’s been up to with--” Constable Cherry motioned at Malik’s entire body. “Your son,” was a weak finish.

“Oh,” Mother said. She nodded. Then she looked over at Altair and shook her head in a way that seemed to condemn him for his crimes and Constable Cherry relaxed just slightly. The men that were holding their breath around the room all looked confused but not relieved. Then she turned her head back to look at the Constable. “Allow me to understand this perfectly. You have arrested this boy because people have reported thefts since he came to our town.” The Constable nodded. “How do you plan on proving this charge?” she asked. “You have not witnesses, you have no proof. Either you are mistaken or this boy is a far better criminal than you are a Constable. I would never _insinuate_ that you are less than excellent at your job.” (Funny how she sounded like the very opposite.) “You plan to level vandalism charges at him because _someone_ threw eggs at your house during the festival, a time when _all_ the children of the town are known to engage in acts of petty vandalism.” Mother let those words settle in.

“And fighting.”

“Oh yes,” Mother agreed. “How exactly has Altair disturbed the peace?”

But the Constable clenched his jaw rather than say anything. It was the petulant look of a child caught in a lie. His eyes swept to the side, not at Altair or the men waiting by the walls but at his desk or his chair or anything at all but Mother. “You know very well ho--”

“If you’re are going to arrest the boy for someth--”

“Damn it Arwa!”

“--ing you should have the nerve to sa--”

Constable Cherry punched his hand into the desk and the men (and Kadar) all around them jumped at the echoing noise. “Look at what he’s done to you! Look at what he’s gotten everyone into. This is exactly the reason we tried to deal with this before! We shouldn’t have given up, it’s a matter of public peace. Our town doesn’t need it!”

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise that this was what was behind all this. Yet hearing it was like a sudden punch in the gut for Malik. His face was hidden by his cowl, but there was no hiding the way his hands balled into fists.

Compared to the combination of guilt and anger roiling in him, the bright _fury_ that spread over his Mother’s face seemed uncomplicated and absolute.

“You are mistaken if you think this boy has changed anything in me.” She did not raise her voice. But her words had all the force of a slap to the face, they accused anyone who could possible harbour that opinion a fool of the worst sort. “My children’s happiness and safety have always been important to me. You should know this if you know me at all. I have argued for their sakes before and I would do it again.” 

Mother is smaller by far than anyone else in the room, but very few of the men there would have voluntarily faced her right this moment.

“You may uphold the law, Cherry, but you are not the law itself and even _that_ could not compel me to stop trying to help my family.” _So, do not even try_ , went unspoken but everyone could _hear_ it all the same.

“Arwa--” The Constable started, but Mother cut him off.

“I am not finished. There is no danger in what we’re trying and it will benefit _our_ town if it succeeds. Either way, we are not going to force anyone who doesn’t want to to participate. Everyone who has agreed to so far have done so on their own terms. This boy,” Mother gestured towards Altair, “has shown us that it is possible and he has shown us that the town has been wrong to blame Malik. But he is not the reason we are doing this. And, as far as I know, it is not against the law to make people _think._ ” Then she looked around the room. Most of the people in the room were sitting, but that wasn’t the only reason that it looked like Mother was looking down on them as she turned her head. When her gaze settled back on Constable Cherry she added mildly, “perhaps, we may benefit from more of that happening around here.”

The Constable hit the table again, his face turning red in anger, "It doesn't matter. He's not going free and that's final!"

"No." Malik said before Mother could retort. He wasn't even sure what else he was going to say but he knew this much: Altair wasn't going to go to jail because the Constable and these men's contempt of Malik. That was simply unacceptable. "Mother's already said, you have no proof. You can't arrest him. You don't have a leg to stand on." His hands unclenched from where he had them at his side and he brought them up to hold onto the edges of his cowl. He heard someone's in drawn breath, and the sound of someone tripping over something followed by a groan, but he was focused on the way the Constable's face, still pink and furious turn ever so slightly pale. Malik did not throw his hood off, but his hands on it were a clear threat that he _could_.

"I don't want to do it like this," Even now, the very thought made his head spin, "but either way, we're taking him home."

Altair made an airy noise, a pass of breath over his lips as he stood up. The chain that was holding his hands behind his back jingled as he straightened up and stepped into the space between Cherry (still going pale-and-red at the same time, caught between fear and fury) and Malik. “I’m fine,” he said so lowly someone might have thought he was trying to keep it a secret. There was a bruise on his face, a pattern of scuff marks on his chest that seemed to be made of dirt and blood dried together in ridges. “Blackmailing the Constable won’t solve the problem.” That was a whisper.

“You see what the troublemaker has done to your son?” Constable Cherry demanded. “Malik would never have behaved with this much irresponsibility before!” 

Altair turned halfway, his shoulders and his face angling in such a way that Malik had the perfect view of Cherry. Cherry was watching him with horrified suspicion, so openly wary of the hand on his cowl that he couldn’t bring himself to look away. The _urge_ to throw back his hood was so bright and awful in Malik’s mind that he thought he’d really do it. 

“There is nothing irresponsible in wanting a real life,” Mother countered.

But her words were seconds-too-late because the cowl was very suddenly pulled backward away from his face. The poor fools that were still looking at him all drew in a gasp of breath but Constable Cherry’s face (twisted by fear) went bone-white in the sudden realization of what had happened just seconds before a flush of color suffused his cheeks shiny-and-red. Kadar said, “Seems like the only way to settle this fight is to prove our point,” he said. “In five days, you won’t have anything to be afraid of.”

Malik turned back to look at Kadar and found his brother with his teeth gritted in grim determination. Altair was smirking down at the ground (probably safer than smirking at Malik or Cherry in that moment). 

There was no choice now but to keep going.

Malik sucked in a deep and turned back towards the Constable. He recognized the way Constable Cherry looked him up and down as lust and it left him bewildered and, quite frankly, more than a little bit disturbed (everything about this situation was _weird_ ). Remembering Jala, Malik said, “I’d like the key.” and gestures at Altair instead of putting them in a position where Altair would have his back to Cherry.

The Constable’s face screwed up into something furious and uncompromising (like he was unhappy at the prospect of giving Altair the freedom to touch Malik), until Malik added a “please” that was polite not plaintive, but it had the intended effect as the Cherry’s shoulders slumped as he reached for the key ring and handed them to Malik.

He took a moment to pull up his hood (no need to cause any more of a scene), and he could pick out the ones who hadn’t been smart enough to look away by the way they groaned in disappointment. There were fewer than he might have expected, he thought, as he worked on freeing Altair.

It was surprisingly quiet for a room with people affected by the curse. Malik could feel the weight of their stares, but there was no loud declarations of love or requests for him to share anyone’s bed. (That may be because, while Malik worked on the locks, Altair was glaring out at the assembled group, the blood and bruises reminders that he had beaten them all and would do it again.)

The chains clattered and clinked as Malik finished and pulled them off. Altair rubbed his wrists with a frown as Malik went to return the chains, the keys and the lock to the Constable.

Mother nodded, “you may all come to dinner if you wish. I will not insist, but it’s supposed to help.”

\--

They made their way out of the station. Altair was close but now crowded against him. Kadar was in front, holding the door and looking like a perfect gentleman instead of some asshole that just purposefully threw people under the curse with his actions. 

Malik didn’t care; there was violent satisfaction in knowing that Cherry was under the curse. The bastard had arrested Altair for _nothing_ (well not nothing, exactly, since almost all of the allegations were true). The only reason he didn’t take Altair’s hand was because it felt like the entire village was staring at them. 

Their small party had shuffled only far enough to get space between the Constable’s building and the house (Malik’s destination) when their progress was interrupted by the dusty footsteps of Frank Herbert and George the Baker following after Mary Dare who was running with her skirts pulled up in her fists and her face gone red from exertion. 

“Oh!” Mary Dare said. She stopped short in front of them. “I went and told everyone. I told them that Altair had gotten arrested and we had to get him out.” She wiped her hand across her mouth and dusted at her skirts. 

“Why?” Malik asked.

“Because it’s wrong,” George the Baker said. “I mean, I don’t like you,” he said that directly at Altair. “I can’t tell if that’s because of the curse or what but, it wasn’t right that he got arrested. Atlas told me that a bunch of men were planning on running him out of town--doesn’t look like they did a good job of it,” George observed. 

“My wife said she was talking to a few folks at the Inn about your idea to become immune to the curse,” Frank Herbert said. “It’s our fault that this happened at all--your Mother asked us to keep it quiet until we knew whether or not it would work.”

“I told my future husband,” Mary Dare said.

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “He’s in there. Missing one of his teeth I think.” He motioned backward at the building with no small amount of satisfaction about it. Mary Dare’s face went all white and then her cheeks went pink. 

“You brute,” Mary Dare said. “If you have ruined his fa--why his face is half the reason I agreed to marry him! Just you wait until I--”

Altair laughed at her fury and then he put his hands on her shoulders while she bristled with a rant about how she would hurt him if something had happened to her future husband. The others were all staring at them, Malik was watching Mary’s face (so bright with anger) as she tried to slap Altair’s arms away from her. But Altair said, “you see? The curse is already done with you.”

Mary Dare looked over at Malik with a curious squeeze of her eyebrows and her mouth hanging open. “Oh,” she whispered. And then her smile pulled up at the edges. “I don’t love you,” she said like it was the best thing that had ever happened. “I don’t care who does.” The words were _perfect freedom_ expressed with awe and joy. Then she lunged forward to hug Altair and he grunted when her body bashed into his. She kissed his face and pulled away. “But I mean what I say. If you’ve ruined his face I will be back.”

“A scar will add character.” Altair did not point but smirked in a way that was probably meant to pull attention to his own scar, “Make his face more interesting.”

Malik’s hood hid the way he rolled his eyes, but George guffawed.

“It’ll be an interesting story to tell the kids one day.”

\--

The rest of the way home was uneventful. Mother waited until they were back in the house to turn around and say, “we need to talk about--” then stopped because only Kadar had come through the door after her.

He shrugged (as if he hadn’t witnessed the exact moment when Malik dragged Altair off, right before they reached the steps of the porch) and she shook her head. Neither of them could even pretend to be surprised.

“It can wait until they come back, I suppose.” She said and went to check what they had stocked in the pantry.

\--

They did not go far.

Malik had dragged him towards the back of the house, past the structure itself towards the large tree growing at the edge of the property. He was pulling up Altair’s shirt even as Altair smirked at him.

“Someone’s impatient.” He said as he slid his own hands over Malik’s waist.

Malik’s glare denounced him as an idiot and slapped his wandering hands away. “I’m checking you for injuries.” He shook his head, “Kadar said you fought fifty people.” But that probably wasn’t true given the numbers in the jail.

There were no obvious injuries to the bones just under Altair’s skin. There were not areas that seemed desperately discolored by the fight. He hadn’t suffered any _noticeable_ or _worthwhile_ injuries at all. Malik thought he should have been less _impressed_ but that and more worried. Except that the persistent pride that Altair had fought off so many and managed to do it with minimal personal injury wouldn’t give.

“Fif _teen_ ,” Altair corrected. He was the picture of perfect patience waiting for Malik to finish running his fingers up and down across his ribs. “Not all of them put up much of a fight. Hey, what about you?”

Malik scoffed at that. “I’m angry.” It didn’t seem like the right reason to kiss Altair; the way it didn’t seem right to be so _proud_ of his violence. But either way it was what Malik _wanted_ and for too much of his life had been spent not pursuing his own selfish wants.

\--

When they returned to the house, Kadar greeted them with, “Oh, you’re back early. I didn’t think you guys would be back until breakfast.” There was no telling how serious he was being, but there was no doubt that he was _amused_ by the very idea of it,“I was trying to figure out how we’d stop them from forming a search party.”

“Where’s Mother?” Malik asked instead of answering. He had straightened his clothes before coming back to the house to the point where he was reasonably sure no one would know what they had been doing. Though it seemed regardless of what he did they were all assuming he and Altair had sex whenever they were alone (which wasn’t inaccurate, but that wasn’t even the point). Altair let the door swing shut behind him and couldn’t even be bothered with the pretense of shame or embarrassment.

“She went out to buy things for dinner.” Kadar was sitting backwards on a chair, with his arms crossed over the back. He looked thoughtful when he said, “but that’s not important. I was just thinking, you know, if you weren’t back and we would have the most trouble convincing Jala and the Constable that they shouldn’t go looking for you guys to stop whatever you were doing.”

There was clearly a point Kadar wanted to make and, by now, Malik knew it was easier to just let Kadar have his say. He sat down and gestured for Altair to take a seat as well.

“Then I started thinking about what difference it makes to people? Why is it that some people fall in love with your and why some people just want to get your clothes off?” Kadar was building up to present his revelation on the matter the way he pitched sales at disinterested ladies going past the cart in the street. “Why is it that Mom felt love for you but Jala who was your school teacher for years wants to jump your bones? Why is it that Old Greavy fell in love with you but the Constable that hates your guts is suddenly lusting after your body?”

Altair opened his mouth like he was going to offer an answer but Malik elbowed him in the ribs.

“Then Mary Dare became _immune_ because she loved her boyfriend. I was thinking that, people like Mary Dare want to be loved, they believe in love! I don’t mean that to sound like it’s a bad thing but they’re very emotionally available. How many times have we seen Frank Herbert and his wife being embarrassing? People like the Constable and Jala--remember how Jala’s fiancé left her for some other woman when we were kids? They don’t believe in love so the curse goes after what’s most effective!”

At which point Altair nodded with a great exaggeration. It was obvious from the look on his face that he wanted to make some sarcastic remark or another about how obvious that whole line of thought was to anyone but he managed to refrain from it. “How does that help?”

“I have no idea,” Kadar said. “Especially not with the sex people. Maybe they need to just go get laid or something.” He shrugged again. “It’s a start. If we can help people overcome the curse _faster_ maybe we won’t have to deal with so much resistance.”

“I’m not sure there’s any hope for the Constable. You’d be better off just waiting for the curse to run its natural course.” Altair hadn’t known the man long, but he’d certainly met enough men like Constable Cherry in other places (men full of self-importance who thought that their position meant their opinions were more _right_ than anyone else’s). 

Malik didn’t disagree, exactly, but said, “It doesn’t feel like the kind of thing we should be getting involved in.” (The anger he felt had been unimportant with Altair pressed against him, warm and oh-so-very distracting, and it had been further dulled in the aftermath, but it was still very much _there_.)

“Okay,” Kadar said, because he had thought long and hard about this and _something_ must come out of it. “But at least we can help the ones who are in love with you. If they believe in love then we just need to remind them that this isn’t the real thing.”

“It’s five days,” Altair said. “They deserve it after all they’ve done to you--all of you. In my opinion.” He added the last bit because Kadar was sighing somewhere in the middle of his statement and Malik’s mouth did the funny tightening thing it did when he disliked what he was hearing. “Let them worry five days--it’s not even true suffering. It’s an annoying itch in an inconvenient place but it’s not debilitating.”

“Well the Constable got what he deserved,” Kadar said with his arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe you should give Malik another hickey or two. I just want to see his stupid face when he realizes what he wants and can’t have.” Every word was venomous.

“No,” Malik said before Altair could agree or decline. “We’re not antagonizing the situation.” Then he stood up. “I’m going to go change, you two--just don’t make any stupid plans while I’m out of the room.”

\--

Kadar went outside shortly after Malik left the room. Altair waited (long enough that Malik should be nearly finished changing), before following after Malik.

The door was locked, but it was simple work to get it opened. Malik was half-way through buttoning the outermost layer of his clothes when Altair closed the door behind him. He frowned at Altair.

“Don’t you know how to knock?”

Altair shrugged. He stepped towards Malik and took hold of his hands before they could finish with the last buttons.

“We need to talk.”

Malik said, “no.” Without bothering to ask ‘what about’. He tugged his hands away from Altair’s. He finished buttoning his clothes with almost single-minded determination.

Altair let go of him without a fight, but his jaw tightened...before he let out a sigh.

“Do you remember the night I first kissed you?”

Malik’s fingers hesitated at the top-most button before he continued doing it up. After a moment, he nodded.

“You thought it was only the curse. You didn’t believe I could actually be in love with you--”

“--because of the curse.” Malik snapped back.

“Because no one bothered to _think_.” Altair countered evenly, “They should have been able to figure out the difference between what the curse did and actual affections. They should have known better than to forget that you are a _person_. But they didn’t. Instead they made you responsible for keeping everyone from the curse and blamed you for it when something went wrong. But it shouldn’t have been your responsibility in the first place.” And, then, because Malik’s hands were balled into tight fist when there was nothing for them to be occupied with, Altair reached out to take them in his again, “You deserve better than having to suffer heatstroke because people can’t be bothered to control themselves. You shouldn’t have had to live believing no one can love you unless they’re being affected by the curse.”

Malik’s jaw was tight enough his breaths were drawn in sounds through the wet gaps in his teeth. Every part of him seemed to be contracted into a point of the deepest aggravation. When he finally, _finally_ managed to unclenched his jaw he only barely managed to say, “It doesn’t matter because I did.”

“It does matter. It needs to go back on _them_ now. All of the shit that you’ve been letting them do to you? It wasn’t ok--”

“How does that help me?” Malik shouted at him. There was a quake in his arms just before he pulled his hands free from Altair’s grasp. “ _How_? Because I don’t _feel better_ knowing that it wasn’t _my fault_ , that all of this? _All of my life_ ,” were brittle screams, “could have been avoided. There’s no _victory_ here! Stop treating this like it’s a triumph! They--” There he stumbled and gestured toward the door like he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Altair said, “hurt you.”

There were tears in Malik’s eyes but anger that twisted his mouth into an ugly shape. He just huffed a breath. “I don’t feel better. I feel _anger_ that I can’t contain. They treated _me_ like a curse. Why did it have to be you? Why did it have to take so long? For anyone to figure it out? And every person that gains immunity to it isn’t-- _hope_ , it’s _another_ person who could have done something about this. It’s another person that _blamed_ me and _accused_ me! I was a _child_!”

Altair reached out for him as if he were a small wounded animal (timid and scared, equally liable to flee or bite). When Malik didn’t flinch or pull away, Altair dragged him in and held him.

Even that gesture made anger bubble up inside. He had had so little human contact outside of his family over the years he hadn’t even realized what he’d lost and how much he’d missed it until the night when Altair had peeled off his gloves and held his hand.

His voice was raw when he said, “I don’t want to be angry--or scared anymore! I don’t want them to--I don’t _care_ if they deserve it. I just want--” He sniffled and, all at once, the anger seemed to drain from him and, with it, all his energy. His shoulders hunched and he sagged against Altair. “I just want my life back.” Was a soft whisper in a voice that cracked, neither resigned nor defeated, but simply _tired_.

“We’ll get it back.” Altair hadn’t made many promises in his life (fewer still that he had meant to keep). But he held Malik now and said, “They won’t hurt you again: they won’t have the chance to.” Whether he meant that he’d fight them all or something else, Malik couldn’t be bothered to decide (but the thought that there was someone who’d fight for him, not because of the curse, but because they genuinely cared was a warm in a way that was different from the red-hot anger that left him feeling cold in its aftermath).

Malik did not smile, but said (without conviction), “Don’t cause any more trouble. I’m not helping you if you’re arrested again.” But then he pulled back and cupped Altair’s jaw, “Kiss me?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so late. Really, there is no real excuse for why it's so late. But this one was a fun one.

The house simply wasn’t big enough to easily fit the number of people expected for dinner. Rather than clear out enough furniture to make the space for so many bodies, they (meaning mostly Mother) opted to make something that could be eaten with hands and set out an array of blankets for everyone to sit on. (“A picnic, I love a picnic!” Kadar had said.)

Malik sat some distance from the others. Frank Herbert and George the baker were talking to newcomers about methods to help with the longing of the curse. Most of them were standing, milling around, trading stories about how they felt and how they’d told others that they’d gotten caught. 

Jala was countering every complaint with the (now true) story of Mary Dare and how she hadn’t even bothered to show up because she was too worried about her fiancé. But it was Old Greavy, sitting in one of the only chairs available that clucked her tongue at the shame-faced men with bruises on their jaws, saying, “it serves you right. It’s about time someone brought some sense back to the situation. What were you all thinking? Acting like a bunch of cowards too afraid of their own shadows to figure out that nobody’s trying to do harm to anyone.”

Malik wasn’t happy for the defense (nearly a score of years late, too late at this point to settle anything). He alternated between trying to ignore them altogether and glaring at them. It was only his own insistence that they shouldn’t antagonize the situation that stopped him from taking Altair’s hand.

As it was, the simple fact that they were sitting together (close, but not even touching), was enough to have the Constable looking at Altair like he was trying to figure out the easiest way to have Altair removed from the picture.

Instead of addressing it, Malik just scowled at his dinner, wishing he were anywhere but _here_. 

(He could run off into the forest. Malik knew that place better than almost anyone. He knew all the hiding places where even the most persistent of his suitors hadn’t been able to find. He could even drag Altair with him. Mother would understand, surely.)

The sigh he let out was irritated right before he picked up his food. 

“It doesn’t taste that bad,” Altair said at his side. It was an obvious attempt to make a joke. Malik offered him a smile for trying. Then they both sighed together as they watched the crowd. The only decent thing to come out of the whole debacle was the fact that he was wearing only one layer of clothing, eating his food with bare hands and sitting outside in the heat without reaching an immediate boiling point. If forcing the people to develop an immunity meant he didn’t have to nearly kill himself leaving the house, it was worth something (at least). 

It wasn’t surprising at all that Constable Cherry finally managed to pick himself up and come over to face them. He stood while they sat on the blanket they were sharing. The bulk of his body cast a pleasant shade that brought an immediate relief from the heat of the sun. For a minute, it seemed that the constable was content to tower over them making a surly, discontent face. 

“Yes?” Altair said after a long pause.

Malik elbowed him in the ribs.

Constable Cherry frowned all the harder at Altair. “If this plan of yours does not work, I’m arresting your boyfriend and your brother for disturbing the peace.” The words were a poor cover for the longing, jealous way he leered at Malik. 

Altair didn’t even move to fight back but leaned ever so slightly so he could look at the Constable more easily. “When it does work, you have to admit you were wrong. And apologize to Malik.” His smile was a vicious slice across his face, all at once feral and dangerous. 

“ _If_ it works,” Constable Cherry said, like the very idea of it was an offense (more likely he was just offended by the knowledge that Altair was the one Malik had chosen).

“It will work. Ask the others: they will tell you.” But they must have already by this point, “But if you’re really convinced we’re wrong, then there’s no reason you can’t promise this.” It looked like there was something the Constable wanted to say to that and the very act of not saying it made him look like he’d swallowed a lemon.

Everything about Altair’s posture was lazy and loose, but there was no forgetting the fact that he’d single-handedly beaten up a crowd of fifteen men (not with a smile like that).

“Fine.” He said, like every word had to be dragged from his mouth, “You’ll get your apology _if_ this farce of yours turns out to be true.”

“Good.” Altair said with a nod and the Constable flushed in anger and embarrassment because Malik had gone back to his food and was ignoring the entire conversation. He didn’t look up again until the Constable had stormed away.

“I said not to antagonize anyone.” Malik said.

Altair’s laugh was quiet enough not to draw any attention but the elbow that bumped against Malik’s side was a challenge to the very idea that he was to blame. “ _You_ started it,” he said. Then he picked up a sliver of meat off his plate and dropped it into his grinning mouth. “These people will get to know you yet.” It was evident from the softening around his eyes that he wanted to kiss Malik but he didn’t, rather than move closer he looked out at the crowd. “You should go and talk to some of them. Maybe the ones that think they love you will realize how acerbic and unlikable you really are and get over it.”

“Ha, ha.” But Malik set his dish to the side and got to his feet. Mother saw him move and came over immediately to guide him to the little pockets of the crowd were half-convinced men were sharing stories about how they’d all gone to school together. 

“I don’t remember why you left school,” a brilliant boy (with blue-tinged bruises on his jaw) named Carlos said. The tone he used was inviting, caught in a suddenly realized puzzle of confusion, and he looked at Malik like he hadn’t seen him (before, ever). 

“Well, they kicked me out,” Malik said. Because it was simply too dangerous to have Malik out around the other kids in the end. He’d held on as long as he could, but between the possibility of heat stroke and the certainty of some asshole trying to pull his hood off, it had been mutually decided he was better off with a tutor than at a school. 

“Oh,” was an echo of shame-faced boys suddenly looking very sorry for asking. There was only one, (a shrewd faced sort of guy who Malik could not remember the name of) that said, “well that wasn’t fair.” He looked almost embarrassed to have said it.

“It was almost as unfair as fifteen against one but that didn’t stop any of you from getting your asses kicked,” Malik smiled at them and then motioned over toward the next pocket of people he had little interest in speaking to. “Excuse me,” he said.

\--

The afternoon ended when the very last of the affected finally left their yard. Malik had given up on interacting (by insulting) them and found a soft, sunny patch of grass to lay in. He hadn’t been outside in the middle of the day without the fear of being discovered in so long that the natural tickle of heat from the sunshine felt foreign. He heard the footsteps before he opened his eyes to look at who had decided to come. While he waited for them to speak he tried to figure out who it was and they would want. 

“If you’re trying to make them immune by making them not like you, maybe consider that our business counts on people actually wanting to purchase things from us.”

“Unless they can find someone who does the kind of work Altair does I don’t think they have a choice. Besides, you’re the one who does the selling.”

Kadar was as likeable as Malik was prickly and acerbic. It was a proven fact that it was difficult to not like the younger Al-Sayf and it was impossible to stay angry at him for extended periods of times. Malik couldn’t quite explain why (Kadar joked it was because Malik inherited all of Mother’s anger and sharp wit, all that was left was for him to inherit everything else).  
He didn’t seem impressed by Malik’s reasoning, regardless.

“Because you don’t have a head for business since you don’t see that what we’re selling is a luxury good. No one _needs_ it. If they didn’t want to buy it from us then they can just not buy it at all.” Kadar rubbed his face with his hand. “The point is, you didn’t have to insult Mary Dare to make her immune. I know you’re angry but can’t you do something that’s not going to hurt our business like, I don’t know!” Kadar threw up his hands, “Make out with your boyfriend or something. At least they’ll stop being angry at that once they’re immune.”

Since it’s clear that Malik had abandoned any attempt at not antagonizing people and had, in fact, decided to do the exact opposite of it and antagonize _everyone_.

Malik hadn’t gotten up during this entire time. Lying down was also another luxury he couldn’t afford outside of the (at times dubious) privacy of his own room. It left his cowl lying in a bunch around his head on the ground instead of covering it. The last time he could have stared up at his brother like this, Kadar was still a toddler with perpetually sticky fingers no matter how often Malik helped clean them.

When he finally did sit up, Malik didn’t bother pulling his hood up.

“The fairy said she gave me this curse because I was ‘unpleasant’. I’d convinced myself it was my fault and everyone seemed to agree.” He said as he picked at the grass, “I thought I could make up for it by not picking fights or getting angry. I thought it’d make it easier. But I’m tired of hiding.”

Kadar’s sigh right before he dropped down beside Malik was long-suffering. “I’m glad to hear that, but can’t you express that without insulting everyone? Maybe just half of them.” He frowned as if something just occurred to him, “it was Altair’s idea, wasn’t it?”

Malik snorted. It wasn’t hard to figure out that the whole thing reeked of Altair’s brand of justice. (Especially not considering how often he’d said as much in the past few days.) “Even if it was his idea, I like to think I wouldn’t have done if I didn’t want to.” He sighed after that though and collapsed back to lying in the sunshine. “I’ll try not to make all the potential customers angry.”

“I still say making out with Altair is the best idea. They won’t even care that you did it once the curse wears off. That’s sage advice from me.” He was grinning at himself, the giggle was in his voice even if Malik couldn’t clearly see his face. “And if we do survive this with customers, and we get commissions like we did at the fair, maybe we could rent an actual shop.”

“That would be good,” Malik agreed. “Better than that old cart.” 

Kadar set into the fantasy of his great ideas. He was building the shop building in his imagination from the ground up. It was a nameless venture with big display windows and countless beautiful glass sculptures. It was frequented by dozens of people with pockets full of gold and shelves in need of delicate knick-knacks. The sort of dream that seemed ludicrous to Malik (even now) but sounded melodical and lovely and _possible_ none the less. “It could be great,” Kadar said. 

“It could be,” Malik agreed. Then he reached up and yanked Kadar back to lay out in the grass next to him. “Now stop talking. I was enjoying the quiet.”

\--

Altair looked amused not embarrassed when Malik told him what Kadar said later (back in the relative privacy of his--their room).

“I don’t mind if you don’t.” He said as his hands slipped under Malik’s shirt and up his back.

“Of course you don’t.” Malik sighed. It was meant to be a weary sound, but it was hard to make it convincing when he was all but sitting on Altair’s lap, and especially not with the way he met Altair half way when he leaned in to kiss him.

\--

Altair’s lack of shame wasn’t a surprise, but what did surprise Malik was how little _he_ cared about the gathered audience as he buttered his toast and tried to find a good excuse to kiss Altair at breakfast the following day.

When no suitable opportunity presented itself by the time Malik had covered one side of his toast in butter, he took the butter knife and, instead of scraping the remaining butter on the side of his toast, reached out and smeared it on the Altair’s cheek.

Altair’s jerked at the contact. When he turned to Malik he looked confused and offended, which transformed when Malik leaned in to lick up the trail of butter he’d left on Altair’s face. It was followed by a quick kiss before Malik pulled back.

He said (loud enough for everyone to hear), “There was something on your face.” It sounded more sly than innocent, especially with the way he followed it up by smearing more butter over Altair’s mouth.

(When they were done, the Constable was making a face like he’d swallowed a lemon but that might also be because George the Baker had come by the night before to tell Mother that he won’t be coming today because he can’t leave his wife with all the morning preparations a third time.)

\--

The others left after breakfast, all except Jala who hovered on the front porch. It was fairly impossible to tell (just from a casual glance) what exactly her motivation for staying behind was. Her face was flushed but her hands were curled up in aggravation. Twelve years ago, when he knew less (and was happy to be ignorant) he might have thought some ornery kid had made fun of her in class again. The pinkness around her eyes made it seem like she might have cried (or might be trying not to) in the way she had whenever the big boys in the back of the class snickered jokes about her. 

As soon as he stopped on the porch next to her, she sneered at him with so much violent distaste he flinched away from getting smack even though she didn’t try to hit him. “I know we’ve put you through worse. I know you were only a child. I know you have every _reason_ to be angry and to be _spiteful_ but you are a miserable, mean-spirited _bitch_ , Malik Al-Sayf.”

(On the list of things he never thought his once-upon-a-time teacher would say to him, that was high.) Malik’s natural inclination was to apologize for his selfish behavior but as peevish as he felt about the whole ridiculous scenario, he just crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe if you hate me, it’ll break the spell.”

Jala laughed at him. “The Constable hates you more than any of us could--and he hates Altair even more than that. If hating you would stop me from wanting to fuck you, I would gladly hate you. I’m so angry at you that I could hit you until I broke my hands and I still want you.”

“Well stop,” Malik said back bluntly. 

“I _can’t_!” She motioned back up the path toward the town. “I don’t have anyone else! I don’t have a lover or a husband or anyone. I don’t even have anyone that could just--just--spend a night with me! I don’t think it would matter if I did because any man I fucked would be a poor stand in for you.”

Malik sighed. “I’m sorry this is difficult for you. I don’t know how to make it easier.” In fact, considering the majority of his life was spent aware that he stood no chance at romance or sex without having to deal with the guilt that the interested party had fallen to the curse, he couldn’t even temper or manage his own sudden, encompassing, thought-stealing attraction to Altair. That was not even a curse. “Maybe, just--try to think of me in a way that’s not sexual?”

“I have tried,” Jala said. “I’ve tried the alternative. Neither have worked.” She let a long breath out through her nose and then shook her head. “I won’t be coming to eat meals with you anymore. If I have to sit through you buttering up your hot new boyfriend one more time I will stab him. If I have to see you to get rid of this curse, I’ll come when you’re not--acting out.” Then she stepped off the porch with a very dismissive wave of her hand and went walking back toward the town. 

\--

Kadar insisted they set up the cart for the day.

“Everyone who’s going to cause trouble is either recovering at home or in love with you. I don’t think they’re going to be a problem.”

Beyond that, it was agreed that it was better for Altair to be out and about, to show off the fact that he didn’t _need_ to be close to Malik at all times (even if Malik missed the easy distraction he provided).

Malik’s feelings about Jala’s absence at lunch (an event that seemed to take forever to arrive with how uneventful the morning has been), were too complicated for him to decide if, like Mary Dare and George the Baker’s decisions to not show up, it were a good thing. But the others seemed to take it as a positive sign.

The only people left from their original test group along with Kadar and Mother were carrying on as they had before: talking to those affected and giving them advice on how to deal with the curse.

Malik thought that they probably weren’t much help to people like Jala, whose problems weren’t rooted in the fact that what they felt wasn’t real lust.

That thought kept him from wandering around (to the various men who looked equal parts relieved and disappointed to be deprived of his less-than-charming company). Instead, he stayed off to the side with Altair. They were close enough to touch, but Malik kept his hands busy with the food, or plucking at the blanket they were sitting on.

It was Altair who touched him first, a brief bump of the back of his hand against Malik’s. It could be easily excused as accidental, but served to get Malik’s attention.

Malik shook his head at the question he saw in Altair’s expression, “it’s nothing.” Then it was: “what did the curse do to you? Was it love or lust?” It was a question he hadn’t thought much about, not when he was convinced everything Altair felt or did was caused by the curse, and not when it turned out that everything he thought he knew about the curse had been wrong.

“Lust,” Altair said. He was leaning forward a bit, like he was trying to trap the words between them, looking at Malik with narrow eyes and nervous hands holding his dish on all sides. “I told you.”

It was true that Altair had told him that he wanted to have sex with Malik. Considering what he knew about Altair’s past (the tidbits here and there that had been shared) it seemed perfectly logical that the curse hadn’t been strong enough to appeal to love. “Well how did you--I don’t want you to start complaining again--but how did you keep it under control?”

That made Altair frown at him (ever so slightly) as he muttered, “I don’t complain,” under his breath in a way that was quietly enough it could be ignored. “I don’t have a new answer for you. The curse doesn’t feel real. I’ve felt instantly attracted to people before but not in the same degree as I felt when I saw you by the river.”

“This plan can’t work if we have people like Jala and the Constable that can’t get over their fixation on me. It’s all well and good if everyone that falls in love with me can just remember that they love everyone else more but Jala is three days into the curse and she still wants to stab you.” He hadn’t been thinking about it through an entirely selfless lens. It was pragmatic to want a solution that allowed everyone the possibility of overcoming the curse as early as possible. Any early stories of elongated torture would end with the hold-outs and townspeople that resisted.

Altair just sighed. “I don’t know what would help. Maybe,” and he hesitated there, “just tell her flat out that you don’t want to sleep with her. Tell her you don’t find her attractive?”

That did not exactly sound like it would help the situation at all. Malik just sighed again.

“You can practice on the Constable,” Altair said. He pointed over at the man who was giving them the most obvious stinkeye in the world, glaring like he could put holes in them from a great distance. 

Malik snorted. 

There were probably compelling reasons for why he shouldn't. Malik could probably name most of them if he bothered. But none of them seemed good _enough_ when measured against the years he’d spent listening to (and believing) the Constable when he said how Malik was a _menace_ to good society and how, for the benefit of the town, he should be kept isolated from people in general.

He could concede that Kadar and Jala’s arguments were valid. But, he doubted Constable Cherry would have wanted anything to do with something Altair had made and while he was as ignorant as all the men and women who had blamed him for the curse, none of them had been so fervent or as _relentless_ in their reproach of him.

If Malik had to pick one person he could not forgive for these cursed years, there was no question of who that would be.

“Fine,” He said, setting his own plate to the side. He briefly considered leaning over to kiss Altair. He thought of Jala, the defiant, angry jut of her chin offset by the brittleness of her laugh, and thought better of it.

Still, his fingers lingered on Altair’s arm for a moment as he stood. Once he’d straightened his clothes, he marched over to where the Constable was sitting, looking like a mouse caught in a trap.

“Constable Cherry, I want to have a word with you.” 

The Constable set down his plate of food with more care than entirely necessary. Malik watched him dust the crumbs off the front of his uniform and wipe his fingers daintily on his napkin before he stood. Once he was on his feet, his face was a confusing twitch of haughty disinterest providing a poor cover for the eager-pink-hope making his cheeks and neck flush red. His hands were awkwardly against his hips under the swell of his gut and he seemed to be in a constant state of adjusting his stance to better show off the assets Malik might find attractive. “Yes?” he said. “About what?”

Malik’s grin was offensive (and he knew it). The way tipping his head and tugging at the bottom of his shirt was _offensive_. He might even have pulled the top buttons free just to show off the full extent of hickies that Altair had left behind. (Oh hell, just to watch this stupid, petty man’s face go brilliant red, he might have pulled his shirt off entirely.) “We are,” Malik said. He did reach up to pull a button loose at his neck. And tugged the sides open. It was a ridiculous, overt action that should have sent the Constable storming away (like Jala) but drew him in closer instead. “Having some trouble figuring out how to help the men that are-- _afflicted_ with lust.” That was true. “So, it is with your best interest in mind, that I have come over here to say that you are well below my minimum standards. I have spent almost the whole of my life with the understanding that I could not be loved or touched or even looked at by another living human being. You can understand, maybe, how this creates a sense of desperation in one’s sexual fantasies. I have imagined myself with very nearly ever person that I have ever met. I have created elaborate fantasies where everyone in town from Silas,” a withered, brittle, mean-spirited old man, “to the Widow Greavy,” a woman old enough to have given birth to his grandmother, “overcoming the curse and falling in love with me. So understand how wholly and completely unattractive I find you to be that even if you had been the only man who could have broken this curse, I would have gladly lived in isolation until I died.”

Everyone gathered had stopped eating to _gape_ , first at Malik then at the Constable, whose entire face was red. He sputtered out a, “now see here--” before his mouth shut with an audible click. There was a conflict written in his expression. The curse no doubt demanded he be _pleased_ by any attention offered him, going against the Constable’s natural inclination towards pomposity.

Judging from the way the Constable’s gaze skirted to Malik’s bared skin (scowling at the hickey Altair had left high on Malik’s neck), looking furiously chastised the curse had won.

The sound Malik made as he shook his head was not exactly derisive, but certainly _unimpressed_. There was satisfaction in having done this, but Malik was more disappointed than he expected at the outcome as he turned around to walked towards Altair. He did not sit back down, but leaned over to take Altair’s hand and drag him up. “Come on.” He said, only waiting long enough to let Altair get his feet under him before he started walking away from the gathering. Altair followed him without asking where they were going and (oddly enough) without another glance at the assembled victims of the curse.

There were no more aggressive displays of affection, but they held hands all the way as they walked.

\--

“Kadar’s going to be angry.” Malik didn’t sound very invested in the observation. There was nothing urgent or concerned in the tone of his voice; nothing that indicated he wanted to do anything about the predicted anger. Instead, he was sitting with his feet in the shallowest part of the stream. His toes were wavering shapes underneath the gentle wave of the water. His shirt was still farther up on the bank where he’d left it, his pants were still loose at his waist, rolled up at his ankles to keep them dry. His skin (so gloriously bare at the moment) soaked up the sunshine with ease. Every day that Altair dragged him out, away from the house and his layers of clothes, he looked healthier and more human. 

Altair was crouching with his feet in the slick slime at the edge of the stream, cupping the water over his head. The day was hot but the water was very cold. It felt good anyway, to wash the sweat off his skin. “I think your brother needs to adjust his expectations. There’s a minor revolution happening, commissions aren’t as important as changing the way these people think.” He rubbed his fingers through his hair and found a twig stuck in the tangles at the back. He threw it into the water.

“He won’t see it that way.” But Malik didn’t sound invested in that either. He was just wiggling his toes in the water like a child. 

Altair didn’t sigh but he felt the inclination. Rather than committing to a sigh, he went back up to the drier part of the bank to sit on the pile of their clothes. Malik followed the motion with his eyes, but did not turn his head. There were obvious problems that required some thought. There was nothing to be done to help Malik work through rediscover his own self-worth. His selfishness was returning to him, and it brought a deep and well-earned unhappiness regarding his present situation. Altair had been in enough shit in his life that he understood the need to work it out without constant attention from well-meaning observers.

“I think I’ll go talk to Jala,” Altair said. 

Malik looked over his shoulder at him. The impression his eyebrows gave off was that he was thinking something rude but despite the aggression and defeat that made his shoulders tight and droopy he didn’t say them. He said, “to do what?”

“Well, I know what she feels. Maybe if we talk about it, we can find some similarity or something to help the others.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, really. In fact, it would have been a _fantastic_ idea absent the way Jala seemed to constantly be on the verge of stabbing Altair whenever Malik became a part of the equation.

“I’m not sure there’s much similarity between Jala and the Constable.” Possibly. But if Malik had learned anything by now, it was that Altair simply would not let go of an idea once he’d taken to it. So he only shook his head and stood up. “Just make sure there’s nothing sharp around when you talk to her.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

Altair watched Malik as he kicked his feet to shake off the excess water. He walked back to where Altair was and dropped down beside him. There was some assumption that Malik was going to kiss him (it seemed to be what they did whenever they were alone), but Malik only sat _closer_ pressing himself up against Altair’s side. Altair’s brought his arm up to wrap around his shoulder.

Malik picked at their pile of clothing as he asked, “if you knew it would be this much trouble, in the beginning, would you still have stayed?”

It seemed that so many people had taken advantage of small lies and the comfort of selfish cruelties in Malik’s life. Altair could have denied that he ever would have considered leaving. It might have been something comfortable to hear. But he sighed a little, “I think I had some idea you were trouble; I’ve been a lot of places in my life and you’re the first man I met wearing over a dozen layers of black clothes during a heat wave. If you mean, if I had known about all this when I decided I was going to sneak to the river to look at you?” But, it was too hard to work that out. He had known he was getting himself in trouble and he saw no reason not to bother (curse or not) because it had interested him. There weren’t enough things left in the world that were interesting to let one pass him by. “Yes,” he said, “I would have done it. I don’t care about them. I want to know whatever I can learn about you. I did before all this too. So yes, I would always have stayed.”

Malik did kiss him then, briefly, and then pushed at him with his elbow. “Go talk to Jala. Don’t let her stab any of your good parts.”

Altair laughed at that. “I’ve only got good parts.” He sorted his clothes out of the heap and worked on pulling them off while Malik rolled his eyes and laid back on his spread-out shirt with his arms behind his head.


	11. Chapter 11

Jala lived closer to the center of town, but the whole place was small enough that it didn’t take long to get to where she lived.

Altair hadn’t worked out what he meant to say (there were too many things that he didn’t bother figuring it out) by the time he made it to the boarding house Jala was staying in.

He knocked on the door and, when it wasn’t answered by Jala, said, “Good afternoon. Is Jala here?”

The old lady who answered the front door squinted at him suspiciously. Whether she was just naturally suspicious or because Altair’s reputation preceded him was a question left unanswered as she grumbled a bit before turning her head to shout inside.

“Jala! There’s a _man_ looking for you!”

Jala’s face, when she saw him, was like she’d just swallowed something sour. She sneered at him (and it was not an expression unfamiliar to Altair after a life of petty crime). He expected to have to fight her about talking, but she nodded at the old lady at the door.

“Mrs. Bilal. Could we use the kitchen for a moment?”

Mrs. Bilal wrinkled her nose at Altair. “I’m starting dinner in an hour. Make sure you’re out of there by then.”

Jala nodded stiffly and, when she opened the door wider to admit Altair, she gestured for him to follow her.

Altair had not forgotten his promise to not get stabbed, but there was nothing threatening about Jala’s stature (the same cannot be said about her anger). Besides which, the front door was really no place for this conversation. 

The kitchen was, as one expected, stocked with many weapons. There were pans, knives, silverware and a broom leaning against a corner that could all conceivably used to injure someone. Altair spent a brief moment trying to work out where to put his body to keep himself as far from harm as possible while in a room with a veritable buffet of stabbing options.

“What do you want?” Jala demanded. Perhaps she was a lovely and kind in a classroom but her every syllable was an assault and insult against Altair. Her hands were down at her sides, heavy weights hanging at the end of stiff arms. 

“I want to help,” he said.

“Ha.”

“You and I were affected by the same thing,” he offered.

“But you got what you wanted!” Jala shouted at him. “And you just _keep_ showing it _off_.” While she spoke her cheeks broke out in red spots and her hands lifted from her sides in a way that didn’t seem much like an attack (at first) but her eyes were darting away from his face to look for anything that could be used. “Do you understand that I do _not_ want this? I was his _teacher_. I taught him how to _read_!”

It wasn’t funny but Altair had an unfortunate nervous smile that came across as arrogant (so he was told) and it pulled at his face as he put his hands up. “Well then try to remember that, try to hold onto that and--”

Jala was affected by a curse and that was (as he found out in a second) something that could not be stated enough times to properly convey the insanity of it. Because she was a middle-aged school teacher that moved like a highly trained fighter, slipping a long-prong-fork out of a container on a short cabinet by a narrow window before she lurched forward to stab it as deep into the meaty part of his shoulder as possible. The pain underscored her shout of, “ _I have tried!_ All I get is--” and she ripped the fork back out of his arm, through his clothes and that _hurt_ possibly more than the initial wound itself, “sex dreams about _a child_!” She might have stabbed him again but Altair grabbed her wrists and held her hand up over her head.

“Malik won’t ever fuck you if you stab me!” He shouted back. Which wasn’t what he meant to say but she was grabbing out to the side for any other sharp thing to stab him with and he was bleeding a narrow stream of red down his shirt sleeve to go with the pulse of puffy-hot-pain. It wasn’t intelligence when he let go of her right hand to grab her left wrist but sheer panic at the sight of a slim silver knife that she’d managed to get her fingers on. She stabbed him in the arm again but he managed to get the knife and shove her backward into a chair that toppled over. She went with it, landing on her back on the floor with her legs spread around the upturned chair. 

Altair was ready to start shouting at her about basic human decency but Jala started crying.

His anger fled and was replaced by dread and he wondered if Mrs. Bilal was still close enough that she could be summoned if he shouted.

Altair said, “hey.” when Jala sobbed harder, as if to get her attention but the way he held his hands up as if to ward off something (or to declare that he was not responsible for this situation) seemed in counterpoint to it.

He wasn’t sure if he should attempt to call for reinforcements or if it were better for him to handle this himself, but Jala removed any need to make a decision when she said, “why is it you? What’s so special about _you_?” She scrambled to sit up, then to stand and there was a harsh hiccup in her voice, but she was staring right at him as she continued, “Why do you get him and a happily ever after,” She spat the words like a curse, “and--and _all of it_? You’re a thief! A petty criminal and I’m--I’m the one who gets left behind.” Her voice broke on the last word in a wail and Altair remembered what Kadar had said about her fiance. “What--what is so wrong with _me_?”

She held her face in her hands and kept crying and Altair did not wonder if he had ever asked the same question: it had been so many years ago and it didn’t matter anymore (but he remembered clearly the moment when he had told himself, “I don’t need them either.”).

Suddenly aware that he was still holding the knife, he shuffled over to place it on the counter.

He said, “it might not have been anything to do with you.” once he’d worked his way to stand between her and the cutlery drawers (all of them, one hoped). Altair made an abortive motion to put a hand on Jala’s shoulder (with the side that hadn’t been stabbed), but decided it would be wiser to keep his limbs to himself. “Sometimes it isn’t anything you did.”

Her hands were still covering her face and her shoulders still shook, but the sound she let out was a choked little laugh, bitter and brittle.

“Because that makes me feel so much better about it.” She said as she took her hands off her face to wipe at her eyes. She looked at the bleeding spots on his arm and sighed. She did not pretend that she hadn’t meant to do that (because in the moment when it happened she had meant it with every fiber of her being). Instead, she took a shaky breath and said, “I think it’s best if you left.”

It would be best, but Altair was not wise enough to behave in any manner best suited to self-preservation. “Listen, I didn’t come here to make you feel worse. I meant it, you and I, the curse affected us the same way. We have to figure out how to fix it and not so you’ll feel better, or so the Constable can get over it--for _Malik_. You can hate me, you can think I’m shit and I don’t deserve anything but _he_ deserves a real chance at life and he can’t have it until everyone gets over this curse.”

Jala sniffled with a wrinkle in her nose that was _disgust_ and not sorrow. Her fingers brushed away the last stray tears that were sticking in her lashes before she wiped her hands on her skirts. “How did you make it stop?” she asked, “if you didn’t just have sex with him, how did you make it stop?”

“I’ve had sex with a lot of people,” Altair said (and regretted that abrupt opening immediately). He put his hand up to forestall Jala’s objections. “Listen, I have a point. I’ve been on my own for a very long time and that means I don’t have the same expectations that you do. I’ve had sex with people I’ve wanted, I’ve had sex with people for profit, I’ve had sex for people in exchange for things that benefited me.”

“So you’re a thief, a vandal, a brute and a former prostitute?”

“It wasn’t a profession, it was a necessity. I couldn’t steal from them, they were attractive, it was mutually beneficial, that’s not the point. I know what it feels like to be genuinely sexually attracted to someone. I understand what it’s like to fake it. The curse isn’t real. What you’re feeling is obsession, not desire. Think about the last time you were genuinely attracted to someone, about how it felt to want to be near them and how you felt when you had the chance to touch them--not even in a sexual way. That’s _true_. You _don’t_ want Malik. You never have but maybe you just have to remember what it felt like to want someone in that way--anyone at all.”

Jala rolled her eyes (and it wasn’t the first time a schoolteacher had done that) before sighing. “It’s a good theory,” she said. “But _you_ didn’t get over it. You got him.”

Altair could have been patient but his arm was bleeding and the pain was _hot_ and _white_ crowding up his senses all on one side. Jala was staring at him like she had perfect right, a one-woman representation of the entire village. He shook his head at her deflection.

“This _isn’t_ about you,” he said. The words were venom, narrow and hissed, “you and the rest of these people,” he motioned out the window, “have _wasted_ enough of his life already. I don’t care if you have to _fake_ it until you’re through. He _deserved_ more from you when he was a _child_ and you couldn’t give it. You’re selfish and you’re hurt and that’s all you care about. You don’t care that when I found him he was _desperate_ for anyone to see him, or that he was _starved_ of all the things you take for granted. How long has it been since he’s been allowed outside in sunlight? Since he’s made a friend who isn’t scared of him? Since he felt like he could touch someone without consequence? Think about _that_. Maybe a minute.” Then he left her there, open-mouthed and offended in the kitchen.

\--

Altair returned to the house because it was past noon but not yet evening and that meant it was the most likely place Malik would be. And if he wasn’t there it was the most likely place to find someone (probably Mother, maybe Kadar) who would know where he was.

But finding him sitting in the house, frowning disapprovingly at a book was preferable to having to search for him.

The way Malik’s shirt hung loosely on him, as if not quite fitting meant he was wearing less than the required amount of layers necessary to make him safe to be out in public. With his hand still on the door, Altair thought, a week ago he would not even have sat in the house wearing so little.

Altair did not doubt the things he knew. Despite Jala’s words accusing him of being a liar he knew what he felt and he knew what Malik felt. But he also thought: desperation made people do and think funny things.

Whatever it was, he did not have long to dissect it before Malik was looking up at the intrusion.

His eyes were drawn, first to the patch of red blood on his clothes (and his mouth tightened in a frown both worried and angry) and he’d opened his mouth (ready with a lecture that started with, _I thought I told you--_ ), then shut it again.

Malik dropped the book on the chair and stood up. Altair closed the door in time for Malik to reach up and touch his face.

“What happened?”

Altair leaned into the touch and said, “I was stabbed.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Yes, I can see that.” His frown deepened until the crease of his brow was a valley. He stroked Altair’s cheek before pulling back, “go back to our room. I’ll get something to treat this,” he said, indicating the spots of red on his clothes.

But before he could go, Altair caught his hand in his. Malik’s clothes were black so he didn’t complain about blood stains as Altair pulled him in against his chest and held him there. He did not ask for anything (not verbally), but after only a brief pause, Malik’s arms came up and he held him.

He waited for Altair to say something (he always had things to say after talking about the curse with or in regards to the villagers), and when it seemed like Altair had nothing to say, Malik sighed and rubbed a hand over Altair’s back.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Was the answer he gave, but the way he held Malik tighter seemed to be saying, ‘no’. Before Malik could come up with the most tactful way to call Altair out on it, he said, “I love you.”

“I love you,” Malik said, and, “go to our room, let me look at the wounds.”

\--

The story came out by degrees, like the blood-damp sleeves that Malik had to peel away from Altair’s skin. The man was usually brash and offensively (charming) arrogant, but he sat with his shoulder rolled forward and his hands hanging loosely between his spread knees. He stared at the floor without looking up, moving his arms when Malik tugged at the shirt to pull it over his head and dropping into the same posture again.

The wounds looked sore but clean; there would be no complications so long as whatever Altair had been stabbed with (a fork maybe) had been clean at the time. 

“You know,” Altair said. He didn’t look at Malik, but at his own fingernails as he picked at the dirt caught under them. “I’m not actually the sort of person that your Mother should be encouraging to stay.”

“Because you’re a thief and a vandal?” Malik asked. He wrapped the wounds carefully, using it as an excuse to touch Altair. There was no telling if the touch was welcome or unwelcome; there was no expression at all (not even a flinch) on Altair’s face while he worked. 

“I’ve done a lot of things, most of them aren’t good.”

Malik set the supplies to the side. He scooted the short space closer to him, put his chin on Altair’s elbow and his arms around his chest. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Altair did look at him then, tipping his head so they could see one another clearly. “Don’t you?” he asked. “Doesn’t it matter to you? The things that I’ve done? Thief and vandal are hardly the worst.”

Malik shrugged, because it didn’t actually matter. But, Malik conceded, that was easy to say when he _didn’t_ know many details beyond what he’d been able to glean himself. Yet, at the same time, it seemed impossible for what Altair had been or done in the past to change the way Malik felt in the present (about this stupid man who wished so sincerely and fought so viciously for him to be _happy_ ).

“Tell me, then,” he said because he was aware this wasn’t actually about him, “whatever you are comfortable with saying.”

He was stroking Altair’s skin, drawing light, nonsense patterns with his fingertips because touch was comforting to him like something warm in his belly when it was cold (but perhaps it was different for those who hadn’t spent years being starved for touch). 

“I fucked a man for money once. He wasn’t even attractive, but I was hungry and he was willing to pay and his place was warm.” He didn’t clarify that he hadn’t even been a whore even though the man had mistaken him for one. He didn’t mention the way his stomach felt like it was trying to flip itself inside out afterwards when he had a handful of coins clutched in his hands and he couldn’t even think of the food he could buy with them because of the bile rising up in his throat. “I used to fight people for scraps. I once broke someone’s face over food you wouldn’t feed a pig.” Altair bared his teeth briefly, but his expressions smoothed out so quickly back into something neutral there was no telling if it had been a grimace or a snarl. He wasn’t looking at Malik (and felt like a coward for it) as he continued, “I wanted to survive. So I did. If that meant stealing, I stole. If it meant fighting or fucking or lying, that’s what I did.”

He felt the moment when Malik moved back, his hands retreating from where they had been and Altair’s chest clenched like the air was being squeezed out. Then Malik was there again, standing in front of him first then lowering himself to straddle Altair’s lap.

Altair’s hands hovered uncertainly over his waist even as Malik took his face between his hands and turned it so their eyes met.

Malik had never been accused of delicacy (certainly not, he was just a bossy child who spit on a fairy) or any specific sort of kindness. He had lived his life as an outcast; constantly watching the interactions of people who were free from stupid curses and creating conversations in his head for what might happen if anyone (anyone at all) happened to take a minute or three to talk to him. His life was made up of half-things; almost friendships, near conversations, and the absolute silence of the forest. The unwavering support of his Mother and brother notwithstanding; Malik had not passed a day without gnawing loneliness until Altair pigheadedly shoved himself into their lives. 

There were not words to convey the sincerity of his meaning; there was not enough time to craft the perfect response to the raw-and-ragged self doubt that Altair had shown him. There was nothing to be done about the shame in the tone of his words. 

Malik kissed him: a sweet brush of lips. He stroked his thumbs across his face and he said, “whatever brought you to me, they are not terrible to me, because _you_ are _here_. I’ve waited all my life for you; I won’t give you up.”

Altair didn’t smile but the pinched look to his face, the strange spotted shame, loosened to something less daunting. His fingers found their way beneath Malik’s shirt to spread across his bare skin. “I wish I would have found you sooner,” he said. There was tender regret in those words; and then he did smile. “But I have you now.” And he kissed Malik with his greedy arms tightening around his back. 

\--

Jala did not appear at dinner time either, but showed up at the house in the early morning when the sun had scarcely begun its job of warming the world. It was Mother who answered the door because Malik was in his room, lying on the nest of blanket, pillow and sheets they had made on the floor while Altair was a terrible distraction that made getting up and out of the room seem unattractive in the near future.

Mother knocked on the door and told him to wake up (like she didn’t already know he and Altair were both awake).

When Malik made his way out the door (without Altair because he didn’t want to risk him being hurt again), he closed the door behind him before crossing his arms with a frown. “What do you want?” The words and tone were rude in a way that was milder than how he’d spoken to others, but it was worse than how he’d ever spoken to his teacher.

(But the vision of Altair, as he had been the day before, was still fresh in his mind and he thought, maybe, he understood his insistence to fight all the villagers better.)

Jala clasped her hands in front of her. “I came to apologize.” She said with her shoulders pulled down and her back straight and shadows beneath her eyes like she hadn’t slept well. “He’s right. We should have-- _I_ should have helped you, but I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

Instead of lying and saying, ‘it’s okay’, Malik just nodded. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“You are.” She said firmly, “but you’re not the only one.” She looked past him, towards the house and Malik had to tamp down his instinctive response to stand in her way and stop her from so much as _looking_ at the house. “May I speak with him?”

Malik’s fingers tightened on briefly, “are you going to stab him again?”

Jala was _embarrassed_ but not precisely ashamed (not the way Altair had been the day before). She didn’t flinch away from looking at him or duck her head or turn her eyes to look to the side. No, she shook her head as she said, “no. But I would like to tell him that I’m sorry and that he was right.” For a breath, Malik was left to wonder if that was a good enough reason to let her near Altair again and the hesitation must have shown on his face because she was saying, “I want to help you and him. I know I haven’t been fair but I feel like I’ve got a handle on it now. I feel like I understand what he was trying to say since the beginning. I don’t know how hard it’s going to be convince everyone else to try this and to keep trying it even when it gets hard but I taught every child that grew up in this village and I’ve fought with every parent. I know them and I can help.”

Malik nodded and motioned her inside. “I’ll go and get him. You can wait here.”

Altair was fully dressed and sitting on the bed when he came back. He glanced at the door when Malik opened it and seemed to sigh like he knew what he was about to say before he could get the words out.

“Jala would like to apologize.” 

Altair smirked at the words, or at the venom with which Malik said them. The mean-spirited smile spread through his body, shifting every muscle beneath the skin until he was that same lazy thief he had been on the first day they met. (But charming, much more charming, with little blood-spotted hickeys sucked into the tender skin of his throat.) “Are we accepting her apology?”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Yes, I guess we should. She says she wants to help because she knows most of the village and she’s not wrong. Her help would be useful.”

“Well, let’s get this over with then.” Then Altair stood up and tugged at his clothes like he was worried about how they looked. “Did you want to come glare at her while she apologizes?”

He seemed to consider it. “I don’t think I will.” It was two steps for him to move close enough to pull Altair in for a kiss. “Don’t get stabbed again.” As if to bring the point home, he pointedly nudged the spot where Altair had been bandaged which only earned him a short laugh.

\--

When the Constable saw Jala there, helping Mother set up for breakfast he had _harumphed_ derisively.

“So you’re not immune?”

And Jala leveled the look she reserved for unruly little boys who thought they could get away with pulling a girl’s pigtails that made a few of the younger men already there stand straighter out of instinct.

She said, “tell me, Constable.” In a clipped tone, “if we all left who will be there to help you get over this?”

Then she proceeded to speak to the more stubborn of the men (many of them adopting the body language of a chastised boy because some things are ingrained in the bones) throughout breakfast.

Malik left her (and Widow Greavy, who had more time in the morning as opposed to Mary Dare who promised to come in the evening) to deal with them, because he felt exhausted after just three days of this nonsense.

The thought of doing this for everyone gave him a headache. Even outside, where it seemed like it would be impossible, he felt crowded in by the immense reality. Absent the anger and regret that had cycled rapidly through in ugly mood swings over the past three and a half days, he was left with the feeling of being condensed into too small a space. It seemed, with the headache thrumming at his temples, that he was being boxed in and there was no chance at escape. It was an animalistic sensation in his chest; an unsure fidget to his feet and hands.

Mother came to stand next to him, to lean against his side. Her voice was small and private between the two of them. “Hold my hand,” she said to him. She had said to him when he was only a child, like she was unsure or afraid. Always the same tone, and the same closeness. ‘Hold my hand’ she said to him when he was scared of bees. ‘Hold my hand,’ she said when he refused to cry on the long walk home from school. It was easy to hold her hand when it seemed like she needed it for her own sake but he was too old now to be fooled. Still his fingers slid around hers and she squeezed a tight grip in quiet reassurance. “See it through, Malik,” she said. “It will get better.”

That was, and wasn’t, the problem. “I don’t want to be grateful to them. I don’t want to thank them. I don’t want to accept their charity,” he said. “It's selfish and it's stupid. I don’t want them to feel better about what they did.”

Mother hummed a soft sound. “It is very selfish. But there is honesty in that selfishness. Forgiveness doesn’t have to be all at once. It can be earned by degrees. You may feel whatever you want, Malik. But do not set yourself in opposition of forgiveness and healing. Let them work off their guilt and as they do it, let go of your anger.”

He looked at her and not at the many, many people who were excusing themselves for the day. “It’s a lot of anger.” 

Her smile was small and secret. “I know. There’s a lot of village left. You’ll have time.”

\--

By dinner of the third day after the whole Jailhouse Incident, there were a few faces already missing. After there was a steady trickle of people leaving throughout the fourth day.

The Constable held out (or held onto his disbelief in their methods) for the longest, sitting amongst a handful of young men who admitted (after much heckling) that they were mostly there for the food.

Widow Greavy was the one who told him to, “stop being such a stubborn goat, Stone. You’re not doing anyone any favours.” because she had known him since he was a child and she added later when everyone was leaving, “that one was always a sore loser.”

But he wasn’t there for dinner later that day and Malik was glad but also angry.

“I thought you’d tell us to go find him.” He said to Altair.

Altair laughed, low and _mean_ in a way that knocked all logical thought out of Malik’s head. “Oh, we will.” He said and kissed the unimpressed line of Malik’s mouth briefly, “but first, let him stew a little longer.” Malik was still frowning at him, clearing finding the idea of delayed gratification grating when this apology (that he had never dared to want before) was already years late. 

Altair kissed him again.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Malik narrowed his eyes at him before pulling him pointedly closer, “you better.”

In the (relative) privacy of their bedroom, there was no reason not to encourage the way Altair kissed him, all open mouth and lewd, before he pulled back and licked his lips. “Don’t worry. I will.”


	12. Chapter 12

Dressing in the morning had been, for the better part of his life, a hellish ordeal that did little but cement the downward inertia of his days. Committing himself, morning after morning, to the uncontested cruelty of his present situation had become so commonplace in his life that he was more bothered by the _lack_ of layers than he was by the guarantee of heat sickness they brought. 

“Its reckless,” Malik said. 

“Bold,” Altair corrected. He was half dressed in the new clothes that Mother had casually left in their room the night before. (Either, Malik guessed, because she felt that it was time Altair wore something that fit him and wasn’t filthy and full of holes or because she wanted Altair to look like he belonged when he strode up to Constable Cherry for his apology.) 

Malik sighed and looked up from fixing the buttons of his first shirt. “ _Reckless_. Remember, we forced half the people who have become immune to even try this. We can’t force them all.”

Altair’s smile was all-teeth as he ran his hands down his fine-new-shirt. “You don’t need more than one shirt. Two is one too many. You’re not responsible for them anymore.”

“I’m wearing two,” Malik said. He left no room to be argued with. “And my gloves. And my hood.”

“One pair of pants.” Altair tried (and failed) to make it sound like a compromise.

“Does it make such a big difference to you?”

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?” Malik demanded. “I look the same with one or two.”

“Yes,” Altair stepped behind him to assess the truth in that statement and just before Malik could turn to glare at him for the presumption, Altair slid his arms around him, fingers finding their way to the fastening of his pants, tugging them loose so they could slip inside. His breath was warm and his voice low when he said, “but watching arrogant men stumble through overdue apologies is a recently developed kink of mine. I want to be able to be able to strip you with ease after you stare down Cherry.”

Malik didn’t sigh (because it would be hypocritical to do so) but tipped his head back as he dragged Altair’s hands back out of his waistband. “One pair of pants, _two_ shirts.”

\--

It had only been days since Malik last walked out of his house in all his usual layers, but already it seemed like it happened in another lifetime.

Still, he had hesitated at the doorway, his hands balling into fists where his nails only didn’t cut into his palm because of the gloves he wore. It was not fear that made him stall at the threshold between his house and the outside world (not exactly), but the certainty that, after this, everything will change again.

He might have turned and gone back inside if not for Altair’s hand on the small of his back, giving him a firm nudge forward.

“The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back.” He said and Malik couldn’t explain why but the way he said it, made the knot in his stomach loosen.

He didn’t look back at Altair but chewed his bottom lip for a moment before he stepped out. “Let’s go.”

\--

They found the Constable in the centre of town, close to the bakery, lining up with the others who were out here to buy their breakfasts.

It was a busy time of day with people rushing about getting stores opened or running errands, but they parted for Malik to go through while purposefully not looking at him (but there were a few who did, some because they were immune and others because they have heard the stories and they were _curious_ ). It was this movement of the crowd, not quite a commotion for being too quiet, that caught the Constable’s attention. When he saw Malik his mouth turned down in a frown and he looked like he’d just swallowed something sour.

It did nothing to deter Malik from walking up to him, stopping barely an arm’s length away while Altair stood behind him and to the right, his thumbs hooked casually into his pockets.

Malik inclined his head just slightly, enough for the motion to be seen, but not enough to throw off his hood.

“Good morning, Constable.”

There had never been a moment in Malik’s life when he had the benefit of Constable Cherry’s mercy. Any feeling he had toward the man was tied up in constant injustice. If his Mother had been here (and she wasn’t, as she refused to take part in such a spectacle) she might have clucked her tongue at the smile that spread across his face in time with the embarrassed spotty flush that crossed Cherry’s. While he had the benefit of hood to hide his smirk, Altair’s was tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Malik,” the Constable answered. He concentrated on Altair with the same settled sense of unhappiness. “What brings you here so early?” 

The unspoken understanding was that Malik should only venture into the center of the village whenever there were likely to be less people. As it was now, there were so many people it was surprising they managed to make a bubble of space around Malik. The longer he stood there, staring down the Constable, the slower the motion around them went. It seemed to be slowly coming to a standstill as more and more people hesitated or stopped. They were all but outright staring.

“You owe us something,” Malik said. 

The Constable went ‘hmph’. “I owe you nothing. You are lucky that I did not arrest your brother and your boyfriend in the end.”

Instead of rehashing the arguments already made in the jailhouse. Instead of reasserting that they were not _wrong_ in this, Malik said, “a man is nothing without integrity.”

The words themselves were worthwhile, but Malik said them with a sneer because they were the words the Constable always said to misbehaving boys caught red-handed committing petty crimes. It was what he had said to Malik when he had been eleven and trying to explain that it wasn’t his fault the other boys had pulled his hood off in an incident that had caused fifteen people to come under the curse. He had said back then what Malik was saying now, “we must all take responsibility for the problems we cause.”

Altair had been the one to demand an apology, but now that Malik was _here_ now that what felt like the entire town was watching them he wanted it (maybe he always had), some acknowledgement that, all this time, it wasn’t his fault.

“Malik--” The Constable began with patronizing patience and Malik opened his mouth and interrupted him.

“Shut up.” There was anger bubbling in his chest like a real, living thing and Malik thought Altair would be no doubt pleased by it (and so would the child he had been, the one who had spat on a fairy). “If we’re talking about who is or isn’t lucky here, then you are _lucky_ I’m not making you take responsibility for the fact that I was made to feel that everything wrong that happened because of the curse was directly my fault. I am not even making you take responsibility for the fact that you tried to write into the _law_ certain ways I cannot live my own _life_ or even that you arrested Altair based on the assumption that the curse is unbeatable that has been proven to be false.”

There is a hush in the crowd that meant everyone was listening now, but Malik couldn’t hear it over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears. It was one thing to insult the Constable, to taunt the others who shared his views, it was another to bring all these things up here and like this. It felt selfish and it felt like he was inviting people to admonish him for acting that way.

And he found, to his surprise, that he didn’t care.

“I am not asking you to make things up to me. But I am asking you to keep your word. You said, you would apologize if you became immune. You are immune now. _You were wrong._ ” Malik was breathing heavier than he expected, his face flushed underneath his hood from the heat and from anger.

The Constable’s face was red too, enough to match his surname. He cast a quick look around the crowd before glaring at Altair. “This was your idea, wasn’t it? To cause a scene like this.”

It seemed the crowd turned their head all at once, a slight tilt to the side where Altair was standing with his aggravating disinterest. The casual lean of his body was a larger insult than anything he would say in response to the accusation but to rub in how little he cared to be called out by Cherry, he faked surprise at the stares directed to him. “Me?” he repeated, “no. Actually, I’m just waiting for you to be finished because I’ve got important plans after we’re through here.” 

Malik rolled his eyes at that. (But he couldn’t ignore the half-realized promise of the words or the sudden awareness he had of the thin layer separating his skin from sight.) “It was _your_ idea,” Malik said. Because he didn’t want to hear whatever it was the constable was going to say. “It was your deal that said if we were wrong you would arrest my _brother_ ,” his voice was getting louder with anger, and emboldened by the shocked sound of the people around him. Kadar was far from angelic but well liked throughout the town the way Mother was well-respected, “and Altair,” which surprised nobody, apparently, “and _you_ would not have done it _quietly_. You would have made a spectacle of it, you would had _dragged_ them through the streets in _chains_ to make your point.” And Malik would know for all the times he had been sent away with the booming voice of the Constable at his back, all the times he’d been yelled at and banned for public safety. 

Conversations were breaking out in pockets around them, one and two people were working through the truth of the assertion. Malik could hear the soothing-voice of the people who had already become immune, passing through the crowd like a balm. 

Constable Cherry was brilliantly red, and clenching his teeth like his great ham fists rolling into balls. He was powerless against the weight of his own word but crippled by his own pride. The standoff was coming to a high point, and Malik realized (far too late) the critical error in attacking him so publicly. The village was full of people who made a life of distrusting him and following Cherry. Even if they had a following, they didn’t hold a majority and his show of aggression would do nothing (at all, for anyone) to further the cause.

A tactical retreat seemed preferable to an outright defeat, but before Malik could make up his mind, the whole proceeding was interrupted by a high-thin-reedy sounding laugh. It buckled in at the end, wheezy with age and good humor and so unfamiliar that Malik had to turn sideways to see the source of it. He expected almost anyone in the world except Silas, pink with laughter, saying, “the boy’s got a point, doesn’t he, Stone? You always did like a show.”

As far back as Malik could remember, Silas had always been one of those adults children made jokes about or talked about with much giggling and eye rolling. He had been mean and old and excessively attached to his chickens, but he was a bit of a local novelty, an interesting figure to gossip about. Malik could still remember some of the stories (most of them fanciful things children made up to make each other laugh or to scare one another) about the man that were told.

But, Malik had to admit, he didn’t actually know much about the man despite how long he’d lived in this place.

He especially didn’t know why in the face of Silas’ grin (which was more _teeth_ than anything in a way that reminded Malik of a fox), the Constable only made a weak attempt at mounting a defense that amounted to, “I’m not sure this is really the time for this discussion, Silas.”

It was weak because of the way the Constable had delivered it: with the slightest of hesitation before he started to speak and then the lack of disdain in the way he spoke.

As Silas made his way over to stand in front of the Constable (and when had even gotten his way to the front of the crowd?), Altair shuffled closer and asked, “what’s going on?”

“I...don’t know.”

The odd thing was: Silas seemed to be taller than the Constable and Malik couldn’t tell if he always had been but he’d never noticed (because Silas had walked with a bit of a slouch while the Constable always stood so very straight) or if it was because the Constable seem to be making himself _smaller_.

“Come on, Stone, fair’s fair. Don’t be a sore loser.” He said it so casually, but when he stopped in front of him, there was a flinch in the Constable’s expression. Malik still had no idea what was happening. It felt like he’d entered some sort of alternate reality where nothing made sense. 

(But Altair could recognize this scene though the players were different. You found them on the streets often, the boys that didn’t have to be bullies because they were always bigger, taller and more intimidating without having to try. The sort everyone did their best to avoid and not piss off.) 

The Constable said nothing, but Silas continued, “And even you have to admit this could be good thing. Wouldn’t have to worry about anymore crazy people coming to bother my girls on account of the blasted curse.”

There was an indistinct murmur of something that wasn’t exactly in support of Malik, but everyone could at least agree that it would be easier for everyone if the curse was a non-issue.

It was hard to concentrate on the specifics of the background conversation when he was three and a half foot from the unthinkable staring contest. Silas was standing straight with his smile twisted in presumptive victory while the Constable was staring back at him with pink-cheeked embarrassment and vindictive pride. The longer it went, the more tense it got; the louder the voices around them grew. 

Altair shifted to his side like he was going to open his mouth and say something so Malik put up an arm to stop him. “Constable Cherry,” Malik said before the spectacle could go on another moment, “I have never wanted to force someone to do something they weren’t willing to do. I should have known when the ultimatum was issued that you wouldn’t follow through. Regardless of the proof that _you_ have experienced, you wo--you _refuse_ to admit that you were wrong.”

Silas made a low noise under his breath at that. He lingered a moment, glaring at Cherry who was clenching his jaw so tightly there was twitching muscle standing out in his neck from the effort, then he looked at Malik. “Go ahead and tell your Mother, I’ll be around for lunch later.” He stepped closer to them, dropping his voice low and leveling Altair with the same mean stare he’d used on Cherry. There should have been nothing about the whippet thin old man to scare Altair into straightening up and softening the hard features of his face, but the reaction seemed instinctual. Silas said, “just see that there’s no more egg burglaries.” 

Altair nodded his head and Silas nodded his back before moving on.

When Malik looked back toward where Cherry had been standing he found the space empty. In place of it, there were a dozen faces full of disapproving frowns. He could see Mary Dare in the middle of the crowd, making a remark to the woman next to her that was nodding her head along. Widow Greavey was holding court in a corner with a dish towel over her shoulder. George the baker was laughing with a few men over by his shop, balancing a bag of flour that was far too heavy to be carried so casually as he nodded toward Malik. 

Altair slid his arm across Malik’s shoulders and nodded his head. “I think they’re starting to get it.” Then he motioned back toward they way they came. “Come on. Your brother threatened me, if I didn’t actually finish some of the commissions today he was going to cut off one of my fingers.”

\--

The promise to strip Malik naked as soon as possible wasn’t followed through with when the first thing that happened when they got home was Kadar intercepting them right as they came in the door.

“You,” He said and dragged Altair by the arm, “are coming with me. And you,” He pointed at Malik with his free hand, “stay here.”

He was still talking about deadlines and professional integrity and _time management_ as Altair turned to him with a frown. Malik sighed, recognizing when his brother could not be negotiated with and waved at Altair as the door shut behind them.

Mother came back into the front part of the house just as Malik settled down with a book. She watched him for a moment (noticed the way he was glaring at the pages without actually reading them), before she sat down near him.

She reached out, placed her fingers on the top of the spine and gently pushed it down. She did not move it much, just enough to catch his attention.

“What happened?”

“Silas said he’s coming for lunch.” He stared at the book a moment longer before closing it. “He had a stare down with the Constable.” Who refused the apologize. That fact was still a sore spot even though he tried to not let it be.

Mother made a sound, an acknowledgement that she had heard and understood. There was no surprise in her intonation about any news she had received.

“I doubt you will get an apology from the Constable.” She said instead, putting a hand on his head, the way she had so often when he was small. “I do not think it will make you feel better if you did. Save your energies for the people who are truly contrite. Do not waste your energy on those who are too proud to realize when they have done wrong.”

\--

The languid span of time between morning and lunch seemed to drag by with intentional and relentless cruelty. Malik had fussed about in the kitchen, attempting to find an occupation while his Mother worked on mending by the big window in the front. He’d stood in the middle of the front room, staring at the window (and the light, the brilliant golden glow of sunlight) until it felt like he’d aged a year and a half and still the clock had barely moved ten minutes.

He’d looked out through the back door to the porch where Altair was set up with a tiny table and a spread of tools. Kadar was there in the space across from him, frowning every time Altair looked up from broken pieces of glass or thin bits of wire. His abrupt and stuttering voice saying things like, “hey, hey--get back to work. Malik doesn’t exist right now.” In between threats he was staring at his ledger, mumbling about profit loss and lack of inventory.

Malik must have sighed (out loud) because his Mother looked up from her sewing to frown at him. It was the slightest twitch of her lips, one of those odd signs of her impatience, before she said, “if you are looking for an occupation, I could think of a few.” It was the same as she’d always said to her unruly sons. It preceded things like: _your rooms needed cleaning_ , or _the rugs could use a decent beating_ , or _the garden hasn’t been weeded yet this week_.

He didn’t want an occupation. (He wanted the Constable to grovel, he wanted the stubborn bastard to apologize to him for making him feel like a criminal the whole of his childhood, and he wanted him to do it in front of the whole village the way he’d humiliated Malik over-and-over throughout his life.) “Like what?” was what he said, dripping with aggravation.

“Well,” Mother said. She stuck her needle in a fold of the fabric and laid it to the side. “If we are going to buy a pig or a chicken, we will need somewhere to put them.”

\--

Malik’s one solace during his years of isolation were books (fiction, in particular, always had a way of making him feel less and more alone, being the closest he could get to human interaction).

The man that came into town once a month with a horse drawn carriage serving as a mobile library knew that Malik would come in the earliest hours before anyone was even awake to return and borrow his books. 

He had borrowed one when he was fourteen that was about animal husbandry. It said that pigs liked to dig, that a pig pen was better long than wide, that there had to be some kind of shelter. The water wasn’t supposed to be kept near the feed because pigs tended to defecate near there.

(He hadn’t felt up to attempting a hen house after having seen Silas’.)

Malik stared at the empty patch of ground near their house and the job seemed more immense than the book had implied it would be.

He should probably make a list of things that needed to be done as well as materials and tools they needed. Malik was a moment away from going back inside when there was a crunch of footsteps on stone behind him.

The sound made him instinctively freeze from the panicked realization that he was wearing his hood _down_.

His heart hadn’t settled down when he looked up suddenly...then relaxed when he saw it was only Jason, one of Josiah’s apprentices. Who also happened to have been part of the fifteen man mob that fought Altair. 

“Your Mom--” Jason mumbled with a hand motioning somewhere over his shoulder, “she said you were out here.” He was flushed pink with embarrassment, like he had never intended to be caught alone with Malik. His palms were rubbing down the sides of his pants legs as he shifted his weight. “So,” was a compulsive tumble of sound, “do you stand around looking at dirt a lot?”

Malik was no expert at pick-up lines (far from it) but he was reasonably sure that was one of the worst ever spoken. He cleared his throat and motioned sideways at where the proposed pigpen would be. “We’re going to get some piglets,” he said. (Wondering, all the while, why he was nervous about the conversation). “I was looking for a place to build the pigpen and thinking about what we’d need.”

Jason’s nod was exaggerated; his stare lingered at the base of Malik’s throat where his top shirt button had come undone. Malik wasn’t sure (suddenly) if he still had pink marks on his throat from Altair’s worrying mouth it seemed likely. While the realization he was being blatantly lusted after should have unnerved it, it seemed to do almost the opposite. He smiled and Jason startled into saying, “well, that depends on how many pigs you’re going to get doesn’t it?” He looked around, “it’s a good enough place for it but you have to consider how many pigs you’re going to get because that changes things. How much space you need, how big the troughs for feeding and watering--the _smell_.”

“It’s downwind from the house,” he said.

“Also, how much money you have to spend will determine the size and the materials. I could probably get you a deal with-- Why are you smiling at me?” and Jason was blushing up rosy as anything, looking like a stupid school boy caught staring at his first crush. The only blemish on his stupid face was the fading bruise across his cheek from where Altair had hit him days ago.

“No reason,” Malik said. More importantly, “I don’t want a deal, but if you have time to help me figure out the proper size of the pigpen and the materials I’d need, I would appreciate that.” 

“Yeah. Let’s find some markers--is there anything we can use around here? Then we can make a list.”

\--

By lunchtime they had marked out approximately where the poles of the fences would go with some large rocks and where the corners of the shelter would be.

Jason promised to have the materials delivered later in the day and hinted that there were some people he knew who might be willing to help.

After he had gone, Malik was left trying to figure out if he needed to wear his hood up if Silas was coming. He hadn’t exactly said he was participating in all this, not outright. (Some part of him still had trouble wrapping himself around the idea that anyone could possibly want to subject themselves to this willingly, regardless of the outcome.)

In the end, to the disappointment of the small group that remained in the grips of the curse, he came out with his head covered.

He stopped in the doorway, however, because mixed in amongst the embarrassed and disappointed faces there were a few nervous ones that hadn’t been here the last few days. 

Kadar interrupted the mounting sense of uncertainty (and dread) by appearing at his side with a crust of bread in one hand and his reassuring arm around Malik’s shoulders. “They all agreed to be here.” He wasn’t smiling but it was barely hidden. “Apparently,” he said it like a whisper that everyone could hear, “the Constable is no match for Mary Dare, Jala and Old Widow Greavey.” He knocked Malik forward. “Now go make friends and if you do a good job at lunch I’ll let you make out with your boyfriend before dinner.”

“He has to eat, Kadar,” Malik called back to his departing brother. There was no answer to that, except the expectant faces waiting for the big reveal. He tipped his head as he lifted his hand to point sideways toward where they’d set up the ongoing picnic for the past several days. “Over here,” didn’t seem nearly as inviting has the older half of the group made it seem like. The new ones shuffled along, taking cues from the ones who’d been there before, they picked a blanket and a spot to sit as they waited in anxious clusters. There was a nervous undertone of chatter as everyone watched Malik sit at the head of the crowd, in the center, where everyone could see him. 

Mother came out of the house with a platter of sandwiches, interrupting the stifling anxiety of the moment with a smile. Right behind her was Silas, caught in mid sentence saying something like, “now, Arwa, this is not the way I like to do negotiations.” He was carrying a second platter behind her like he had no idea how it had come to be in his hands. 

“Unfortunately,” Mother said. “I need an answer immediately. I would prefer a proper, true agreement and I think you would agree it would be better for everyone if there was no hint of the _curse_ having affected your decision at all.” 

Silas didn’t growl but the surly set of his mouth seemed to indicate that he wanted to. “Fine, three chicks.”

Mother smiled like pure sunshine, “thank you, Silas.”

“But I supervise the building of the henhouse, these are my girls’ finest chicks…” He might have gone off on a tangent about how his chickens were superior (while everyone who assembled groaned to themselves about yet another chicken-based rant) but Malik interrupted the start of the speech by flipping his hood back. Silas was caught mid-word, staring at him across the narrow side yard, mouth open and eyes wide. “Well,” was all he said in the immediate aftermath.

Suddenly, Malik remembered the night of the festival (the night they had egged the Constable’s house). What was it Altair had said? _I’m curious to see if the curse is stronger than his love for these chickens._

(There was a good chance that when Kadar gets back to the porch, he’ll find Altair’s work table empty.)

He said, “I’m sure Altair would be happy to help with the henhouse.”

Silas’ response was immediate. “What does that fool know about chickens, eh? Besides stealing from them, I mean.”

Malik’s smile was not deliberate (but it made someone in the gathering swoon) as he said, “I was thinking of putting the henhouse by the pigpen we’re building.”

The only correct word to describe the face Silas made would be ‘horrified’. “Absolutely not! You can’t--I won’t allow it!” Silas could not point or gesture since his hands were full of food, but he did stomp his foot. Everyone else was surprised by the display (completely mystified at how he’d completely denied Malik just now. For some _chickens._ ) “Those poor girls deserve better than that!”

And Malik probably shouldn’t laugh, so he bit his lip to stop it from bursting out. He thought, if Altair weren’t watching from somewhere then Malik would need to tell him later about this. 

“It has to be facing south! With windows and you better not be thinking you can get away with having them look at a blank wall all the time they’re in there! I’ll have you know, I painted the mural on my girls’ wall by myself--are you even listening?”

“Yes.” Malik said (and so was everyone else). “If you want to come out to the back you can pick a spot for the henhouse.”

The invitation was almost immediately greeted with a surround-sound blurt of noise as men and women (the newest and the oldest among them) gasped at the same moment. A great concussion of sound erupted as they protested with their hands flailing as they shouted their points about how it was so _unfair_ they were being ignored in favor of Silas. One man, a great barrel-chested barrister was up on his feet with ruddy cheeks saying, “now see here, young man, we’ve all agreed that you sit there and you stay there until we’re all finished. It’s one thing to go off with that--that--,” but he stuttered over a word vile enough to attribute to Altair, “ _boy_ ,” seemed lame as a follow up, “of yours but we will not be cuckold over the proper location of a henhouse.”

Silas was slack-jawed with amazement, caught up in the moment as he was, almost dropped the platter he was carrying. It was saved at the last moment by Mother who had hummed her way through delivering the first round of sandwiches and circled back again. “Sit down, Ervil,” Silas said. “This is important.”

“Silas,” Mother said. “You can come by tomorrow morning after breakfast and help us plan where to put the henhouse. Right now, we’ve got to abide by the rules.” She offered him a sandwich and Silas curled up his lip at them. 

“It’s a bunch of hogwash,” Silas said. “As sure as hell don’t love you so much I’d let you treat my girls like that. You can bet on that,” he said to Malik. Then he threw his hands up in disgust and left altogether.

Mother was humming again as soon as he’d gone, passing out sandwiches and making small talk. Malik was trying not to laugh, with his ears burning for the sound of Altair laughing (because he had to be, somewhere in a tree or on the roof). He was caught up in the imagined glee on Altair’s face and he almost (but not quite) missed how one or two of the younger men in the crowd were staring blankly down at their sandwiches. Without anyone to distract him, there was nothing to do but watch the realization dawn on their faces.

It came on slowly, unfurling into a real light of sudden freedom. When they looked up again, there was a different sort of blush to their faces--something a lot closer to shame than devotion. He watched them dust the crumbs off their knees as they got up to their feet. One by one they thanked his mother for her hospitality and they hovered with indecision at the gate. 

Ervil was still standing there, clutching his sandwich, frowning about henhouses and Malik and Silas and all of it. “I don’t figure I really need to bother with this anymore,” he announced. “You may have a had a special sort of shine to your eyes the first time I saw you but I don’t care for that look you’ve got now. There’s nothing funny about this.” And he was working up to a head of steam that tapered off as soon as he said it. 

Ervil was an old man, the father of boys that Malik had gone to school with. He looked at him, like he might never have actually seen Malik before that moment, and he nodded his head up-down-up-down. “There’s nothing funny,” he repeated, all choked with something wet and thick in his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Al-Sayf, I’ve got somewhere else to be.” He ducked his head again and stooped to pick up his hat and left with a bowed head and slumped shoulders.

\--

Malik went to the small shed near the house to see what tools they had. He had not gone to look for Altair after lunch because if Kadar hadn’t found him at that point, then he was probably not going to be anywhere Malik could get to him easily.

He was trying to be productive but there were arms snaking around his waist as he closed the door behind him.

“How was lunch?” Altair asked, propping his chin on Malik’s shoulder.

Malik rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to pretend like you weren’t there.”

“I wasn’t.” He said, “your brother wouldn’t let me leave.”

Malik laughed. “And you were being good and listened?”

“I’m always good.”

Which was a lie as surely as the sky was blue, but the way he turned his head to kiss the spot right behind Malik’s ear _was_ nice.

“I missed you.” He said against Malik’s ear and it made Malik snort.

“It’s only been a few hours.” He reached over to peel Altair’s hand (that had been trying to sneak its way up his shirt) away from himself. Then frowned. “I gave you gloves.” Was pointed, accusing Altair of being the sort of idiot that ended up with small injuries all over his hands when such things were avoidable. “You’re meant to wear them.”

“I know.” Instead of explaining himself, he just dragged Malik closer so there wasn’t a single sliver of space between them. “Are you all right?”

Because Malik’s moods were never predictable, always complicated, after these meals.

“Your hands aren’t.” Then it was, “I don’t know. I’m tired.” He turned his palm to link their fingers together, because he wasn’t really ready to talk about it yet. “We should bandage these. Again.”

“I can think of something else we could be doing.” There was no mistaking what that was, not with the suggestive way he said it.

Malik was about to tell him _no_ when the door opened suddenly.

“I can’t believe you!” Kadar groaned. 

Altair was far from innocent when he looked back at Kadar like there was not a single person surprised by the turn of events. It took a half-beat longer than normal to come up with a response (possibly because his brain had been settling low in his gut, just seconds ago) but he lifted his bleeding hand, “I need to bandage these,” he like even _cared_.

Malik was half-willing to shove Altair out at Kadar and let his brother do whatever he wanted with him. (Force him to work until he bled to death, perhaps.) But the inconstant mood of the afternoon made him feel peevish and he said, “all the supplies are in our room,” with a smile on his face.

Kadar’s hands were on his hips, breath caught in a scoff. “Fine.” It had never been an actual debate that Kadar was in danger of winning but he still made it sound like a compromise had been reached. “But you better wake up an hour early tomorrow morning because he has to finish two more pieces before crazy chicken man shows up to pick the prime location for our new henhouse!” And he just shook his head as he turned and left.

“I think he’s jealous,” Altair said. He nodded too, with a smile breaking character across his face. “He just can’t get that seamstress girl out of her clothes.”

Malik didn’t care (presently), “we are going to bandage your hands.”

Altair sighed, “fine.” Then he curved his hand into Malik’s and pulled him toward the house.

\--

It was late afternoon when they finished (bandaging Altair’s hands, shushing one another through trying to have the quiet sex possible) and the room was hot as an oven. It was dark with the curtains nailed into place, and the combination made it easy to doze and hard to sleep. Altair was sitting up just enough to lean his shoulders against the wall and Malik was lying just enough on his side he wasn’t going to fall off the bed. 

“I told you he’d care more about his chickens then he did about the curse,” Altair said like he’d been working through exactly how to gloat about it the whole afternoon. “But what the hell was the fat man saying?”

Malik shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” He tipped his head so he was looking up at Altair. Thinking about how short a time they’d known one another and about how a week or so of finally getting a proper amount of food had added a good layer of meat to Altair’s knobby bones. “Wear the gloves,” he said because he could see the blood-spotted bandages on Altair’s long fingers.

That earned him a dour frown, but Altair slid down to lay on his side so they were face to face. “They make it hard for me to twist the wire exactly how I need it.” Just so Malik didn’t get the mistaken impression that Altair was born with absolutely no survival instinct. His face was soft, caught up in a thought as he stroked his fingers idly up-and-down Malik’s bare arm. “Do you think he fucks the chickens?”

Malik didn’t think he’d find it funny. He didn’t expect himself to be the sort to laugh at something so crude. Yet, he was laughing so hard there were tears coming out of his eyes and he had to lean forward, press his face against Altair’s neck to stop himself from laughing himself off the bed.

“Why is that the first thing you ask?” He asked when the laughter finally died down. “You wondered the same thing about Ewan Tanner and his trees. Now Silas!” He sat up to loom over Altair, putting one hand on the bed beside his head. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”

(But he had made Malik laugh. That alone was enough to be pleased about.)

“No,” Altair said, “think about it--”

Malik groaned and let himself drop onto Altair which interrupted his sentence. “I don’t want to!”

“True love always prevails in stories, right? So he’s--”

Then Malik covered his mouth with his hand. “Shut up. Stop talking or I’m just going to send you back to Kadar. Let him make you work you until you fall over. I’m serious.” He was glaring at him (with his face still pink from breathless laughter) as he slowly removed his hand.

Altair folded his arms behind his head, settled into place in the bed with zero care for the heat or the absurdity of his questions. He looked at Malik the way none of the other villagers ever had not when they were cursed, not when they weren’t. “I should go back and finish what I was working on. We’ve still got a couple hours until dinner, and I overheard you were planning a pigpen.”

“Wear the gloves,” Malik said again. He didn’t want to move, not there was no sense in staying in the little room full of hot air. He shifted his weight back to one knee and turned so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “I think Jason’s got people bringing wood.”

Altair sat up next to him, rubbing his sweaty palms across the back of his neck. “Maybe if I’m good, Kadar will let me come to dinner. I saw the new faces, I didn’t like them.” He motioned at the imaginary crowd in front of him. “They seemed clingy.”

“Well, they’re all cursed,” Malik said. He picked his pants up off the floor. “But you should come to dinner, they always stare at you when you’re there. It’s easier for me.”

And Altair coughed a laugh as he picked up his own pants. He was quiet for a minute, just buttoning his pants up again with a flinch at his edge of his mouth. Malik was halfway through debating whether or not he even wanted to wear a shirt (considering how hot it was outside) when Altair rubbed his less bandaged hand through his hair, “but why else would he care that much about _chickens_?”

Malik pulled his shirt on but left it unbuttoned. “No mystery about why the curse affected you like it did,” he said. But there was no malice in it. He pulled the door open and there was a gust of wind as the cooler air of the hallway rushed in. “Maybe we should take the nails out of that window,” he said.

Altair’s face was pure disbelief (after everything else he’d already seen), “it’s _nailed_ shut?” As if that, after everything, was the most outrageous thing. He was mumbling something about, “absolutely psychotic…” as Malik walked down the hall.

Kadar was pouting in the living room, looking at his ledger like a jilted lover. He only looked up long enough to spare him an angry stare. “I hope you know how much it costs to feed the whole damn village every day. No profits, all cost and our business is back where it started.”

Malik paused with his hand folded against the back of the chair opposite Kadar. “So we’ll tell them all to pack a lunch. Stop pouting, he’s all yours for the afternoon.” He went out through the back door and found his Mother squinting into the sunshine with a hand over her eyes failing to shade her from the light. “What’re you looking for?”

His Mother glanced at him, at his unbuttoned shirt and then up at his face (and his sweaty hair and his complete lack of a hood) and her smile leached into her voice as she said, “looking for somewhere to put the hen house that will suit Silas.”

“Nowhere will be good enough.” Except maybe in Silas’ own henhouse. He shrugged, “we can let him worry about it.”

\--

They had had to repair the fence once when Kadar was still too little to offer too big a contribution. Malik and Mother had had to fix it at night by the light of a flickering lamp and the whole thing had been done as quickly as possible to ensure no one saw them. (The urgency and timing made it feel like they were thieves trying to break in rather than residents trying to fix something broken.)

So being able to help build the pigpen was a novel experience.

Jason had brought along two friends. Between the three of them, they had one person with immunity. The other two blushed when they saw Malik’s shirt was unbuttoned. Malik had been more fascinated with the rough grain of the wood beneath his fingers and the heavy weight of the hammer as Gerald explained how to safely hit a nail.

Once the other two managed to unscramble their brains enough to work, they got started.

It took all of ten seconds for the novelty of rough textures to wear off. Malik had worn gloves his entire life, leaving his skin soft and unsuited for the hard work they were engaged in. When Malik excused himself to go get his gloves, there were still only three people digging holes in the ground and setting the posts for the fence in them.

When he returned that number had doubled and when he stopped to stare, many of them smiled at him like they were embarrassed (but please all the same. Like they were looking to be praised). Gerald (the only bastion of sanity in this crowd) shrugged at him and went back to work.

Malik shook his head. “I hope you brought your own tools. I don’t think we have enough for everyone.”

At least they’ll be finished quickly.

(And they were, despite the fact that every time Malik asked for help or for someone to pass him something everyone would drop whatever they were doing to volunteer or the way most of them stopped to stare whenever Malik had to wipe the sweat from his face.)

\--

After dinner (which wasn’t much different from lunch except for when Altair arrived part way through to claim the space right beside Malik), Malik sat down in the middle of the pigpen (still devoid of pigs) to appreciate the fruits of their labour. One part of the fence was a bit lopsided (which had made Jason twitch, offended in the way only an almost-professional could be) and Malik’s entire body ached from the work it had done, but he was _pleased_ with everything.

It was Mother that came to find him, with a towel over her shoulder and a soft smile on her face. She leaned against the fence post with a nod of approval. Her hands--far more used to hard labor than his--touched here and there on the fence with idle appreciation. “I’m not certain you’ll be getting Altair back.”

Malik shrugged.

“This is good,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow you can go and buy some piglets to put in it.”

He shrugged again, because just then, in the dying light of the evening, he didn’t care about the piglets, or tomorrow, or anything, but the pig pen he (and a dozen other overly solicitous men) had built.


	13. Chapter 13

It was morning again before Altair had had proper time to enjoy it being night. All his (and Malik’s, and Kadar’s) good intentions about turning in early and making an early start had been botched the night before when he’d discovered that Malik’s window was not only nailed shut but also painted shut. The paint had fused over the long days of the wet summer into something like a glue and it had taken an hour (in the dark, in the oven of their room) to pry the damn thing open. The sweet night breeze hadn’t managed to reduce the sauna-heat of the room to a livable temperature until long after midnight and Altair hadn’t fallen asleep until at least an hour after Malik.

He was in no mood to be woken up by the sound of the door slapping against the frame or the exclamations of an unwanted crowd beyond the front porch. But they were there, with their voices like drums, shouting their complaints and comments through the fluttering curtain.

“--the entire government of the village!” sounded like Arwa.

“Now, look here, Arwa we haven’t always been on the same side of things but--” reminded him very much of the fat man from the day before. 

Altair picked his head up off his sweat-sticky arm to look at Malik and found him lying in a puddle of blankets on the floor, frowning at the ceiling. “Go tell them to shut up,” he said.

“You go tell them to shut up,” Malik snapped back. 

It could have become a bigger argument; Altair was furious with lack of sleep. His head felt too big for his body and his eyes were dry as deserts. The taste of his mouth was something like dried flaky skin from someone’s feet, but he picked himself up and grabbed a pair of pants to yank on as he stumbled out the door. The argument that was loud through the bedroom window was dull through the front of the house. He couldn’t hear any of it between the hallway and the front door until he yanked it open.

“--But that’s just my opinion,” was the part he stepped into, with Arwa looking smug about something while a cast of old men stared at her all open-mouthed and aghast. 

Altair was shirtless, with bloody fingers from ripping off the gummy bandages, and hickeys from Malik’s brand new appreciation for making art out of blood spots, with his hair sticking up off his head and sweat caked on every possible part of his body. He stared at them--wearing nothing but a pair of pants he hadn’t properly fastened--with one of his hands still grasping the door handle. “Just shut up,” he said as politely as possible (and he found that he had every reason to be proud of himself for not calling them all names and screaming curse words at them).

“Well,” was the fat man and the whole host of his old men friends, chittering up into objections about his behavior. 

Altair slammed the door behind him when he went back in the house, stumbled through the house and fell over Malik to get back into bed. “I tried,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“Not very hard,” was Malik’s unhappy response, half buried under the sheet he pulled over his face. “About as hard as Kadar tries to wash dishes.”

“Now what in the hell,” was the shrill, unwanted, hateful voice of old man chicken fucker himself just outside the bedroom window. Silas sounded perfectly surly considering how early in the morning it was. “Are all of you doing here?”

Malik groaned loudly, the sound muffled by the sheet over his face. “What the fuck is he doing here? He was supposed to come _after_ breakfast!”

“Ervil, if you’re here to get in the way of progress--”

“They’re chickens, Silas! This is more important--”

“ _Excuse me?_ I will not have my girl’s move into subpar housing just because--”

It was about that point where Malik growled and threw the sheet off. Altair grunted in objection when Malik climbed over him to reach the window. He didn’t part the curtains but reached out to knock on the window hard.

“Some of us are trying to--shit!” In a hazy state of anger coupled with lack of sleep Malik had completely forgotten that the window was no longer nailed shut and it flew open when he banged a fist against it instead of rattling in its frame. In a blind panic, he reached for the window, his hand pushing against the curtain to grab the handle. And it might have been fine like that with the fabric covering his skin.

Except then the fabric ripped (it was old. Malik had meant to replace it soon before the whole insanity of the last two weeks began). Pulling his hand back inside immediately was made harder by the fact that the momentum of Malik’s body was going forward so he flailed a bit before he sat back hard enough that he fell backwards, over Altair, off the bed and onto the floor. Malik held his head with a hiss.

The world outside the window descended into a chaos of people moving closer to the window and Malik was awash with panic right before someone outside said, “just wait a moment--Pervis! Just stop right there! Control yourselves--”

Things quieted outside and Malik could make out the sound of someone whimpering outside over the pounding of his heart.

Mother said, “I’m very sorry about that. But I didn’t have many options.”

Malik crawled closer to the bed and sat with his back to it, slouched low enough that his head wouldn’t peak out.

“What’s going on?” He hissed at Altair who was sitting up now and peeking out from where a huge swath of the curtain was now gone.

Altair squinted against the sunlight (and damned the summer sun for rising so early). “The fat man is holding them back. I think your mother kicked one of them.”

“She did, _what_?”

“Kicked one of them.” He looked amused, “between the legs.”

“Arwa, surely there was a better way…”

“I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it.” But Mother didn’t sound particularly sorry as another person let out a high pitched whine.

“He probably deserved it,” Altair whispered sideways at him. Then he grumbled and rolled off the bed to sit at his side, “no chance for us to go back to sleep now, is there?” If he noticed how Malik was blushing (from being the most embarrassing person ever to live in that moment) he chose not to comment on it. 

“No,” Malik said. 

Outside the window, Silas was chuckling. “Now behave like gentleman, you’re all elected officials.” Every word of the sentence was dripping sarcasm as thick as honey. “It’s not so bad, you’ll see.”

\--

Kadar was offensively chipper in the kitchen; whistling to himself as he provided minimal help to their Mother who was also, quite _obnoxiously_ full of energy. Mother was saying, “--there has to be _someone_ that is sound of mind to run the village.” 

Malik had heard but hadn’t cared enough to pay attention to the story behind the six old men that were currently huddled around the opposite side of the breakfast table from him. The three on the left were pink-cheeked lovers, sighing over how perfect he was. (And he wasn’t, in that moment, anything approaching perfect.) The three on the other side were tugging at their tight collars, shifting around in their seats. “Why are they here again?”

He got a cacophony of answers, everything from ‘proposing we join our souls in the eternal bond of marriage’ to ‘getting a chance to show that young upstart you’ve been seen around town with what a real fight is’ from the old men that were ogling him. 

“How many times do you need to hear it?” Kadar asked. He slapped his hand across Malik’s back in the way that only a person who had gotten sleep could possibly do. His smile was aggravating enough that Malik considered slapping him. (Or having his new found devotees do it for him.) “Ervil convinced the entire village council to become immune to the curse.”

“And the morons we elected decided to do it all at the same time,” Mother added. 

“Except Mom kicked one of them in the--uh,” Kadar hesitated there at the last second (probably because Mother glared at him), “you know,” he finished up lamely with a general hand motion to indicate his groin. “So there’s at least one guy left with a clear head.”

“Well now,” added old man #4, perking up from where he’d been sweating nervously with one hand noticeably missing from the table top. (What he was doing with it, Malik did not want to imagine). “There’s two. The Constable is immune.”

In his sleep-deprived state, Malik wasn’t entirely able to understand the logic of the statement at first. When he made the connection, he took in a sharp inhale. “I’m sorry. The _Constable_ is going to be on the council while you’re all--” Malik gestured at them to indicate their general state of struck stupid by love (or lust).

Mayor Pervis cleared his throat. “In all technicality, Constable Cherry won’t be an actual, sitting member of the council. However, the last time the entire council had been rendered unable to run the village all at once, about seventy years ago, they’d put into place a system that will pass the power of authority down a temporary chain of command until new officials are elected or become able to work once again. In this case, that would be Constable Cherry.”

Malik was still trying to work through the horror that the Constable would be in a position of power for at least three more days (unless one of the men here loved something as dearly and as obsessively as Silas did his chickens) when Kadar asked, “what happened that the entire council suddenly couldn’t work?”

“Mushrooms.” Old man #2 (who was balding) said, “someone brought stew for the whole council but they had mistaken a poisonous mushroom for another variety that looked similar.”

And while that was a fascinating piece of history that never made its way into any books, Malik was more concerned by the fact that one of the people who had a strong vendetta against Altair and him now made up one half of the acting council.

The panic that swelled in his chest was only dampened by the serene smile of his Mother who said, “I believe Eustace and the Constable will work well together.”

The rest of the council sighed.

Malik jerked around to look at his Mother who was smiling to herself as if _this_ were the very best part of her day. “The Constable hates Altair!” (Because that was the most important thing to remember.) His attention was drawn away from his Mother’s perfectly innocent shock at being shouted at by the muttering of the old men grumbling furious insults under their breath.

(Thief, criminal, _trollop_.)

Kadar was snickering to himself.

“Shut up,” Malik snapped at them. He turned back to look at his Mother. She had one hand on her hip and the other resting on the countertop, giving him the same look she had given him when he was a willful child. That odd mix of pride and disapproval. “The Constable cannot be the government, not for a few days or hours or even minutes.”

“Malik,” Mother said _very_ calmly. “Eustace won’t give Cherry a single thing he asks for. He hasn’t since they were schoolboys together, I doubt he’ll start now.”

“That’s true,” was #4, “Eustace just about hates old Stone. Ever since--” and the old men fell into storytelling, arguing the exact specifics of the incident that incited the feud. Malik didn’t care (about Constable Cherry or Eustace who was now the sole runner of the village government) or any of the old men at all. 

“Maybe you should go see how Altair and Silas are getting along,” Mother said. 

\--

Silas had taken one look at the pigpen and decided it was evidence that Malik could not be trusted to have any hand in the henhouse.

As such, when Malik came out to check on their progress he was regarded with deep suspicion like he were some kind of saboteur looking to ruin their work.

‘Their work’ being a marked out area (reusing the stones they’d used as place markers yesterday), for where, Malik assumed, the corners of the henhouse would be.

“I thought we were only getting three chicks?”

He walked closer because Altair looked sleep deprived and ready to upgrade himself from misdemeanant to felon.

It might be because Silas was sneering when he said, “Don’t you get started on that too. This is as much space those three girls deserve.”

Altair added, “he wants to add a garden too.”

It was already twice the size of the pigpen, Malik thought. He wasn’t sure chickens were even half the size of a full grown pig.

Altair’s face was flushed pink from the heat and from arguing non-stop with what may as well have been a chicken loving brick wall.

“Well, you can go ahead and plan that, Silas. I need Altair for a moment.”

Silas was happy enough to be left to his own devices and to make all the decisions without argument that he didn’t care what Malik was dragging Altair off for.

When they were out of ear shot, Altair hissed. “He’s insane! He wants the pigs to be envious of the henhouse. He says,” Altair’s voice pitched higher in an approximate imitation of Silas’ reedy voice, “ _you’ve been inside my henhouse. You saw the mural. I painted that myself you know? Every single part of it._ He says the windows have to have decorative molding. He wants to install a fucking stained glass window!”

And he probably wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Altair’s mouth was a flat angry line and his hands were balled into fists. Malik sighed, long and long-suffering.

“The Constable is going to be temporarily on the village council until the affected members become immune.”

It had (and had not, in equal measures) occurred to Malik how little time he’d known Altair until he was left standing at his side suddenly feeling like a stranger. Most hours of the day, Altair appeared arrogant but friendly, but always approachable on some level or another. It was just, as the words were spoken, Altair’s entire face went still and his back straightened and his eyes cleared out of any sort of emotion. He was a perfect statue of a stranger, suddenly devoid of anything recognizable. 

“So he’ll get his way then?” Altair said. Every word was perfect and precise and monotone. (Every sound contemplating violence, maybe.)

“Mother says the guy she kicked in the balls hates him and won’t do anything he says,” Malik said. “It doesn’t matter what he tries to do,” seemed as important, “I won’t let him do anything to you.”

Altair blinked and let out a short breath. Something like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he just shook his head. “I know,” seemed half-realized. “What the hell are we going to do about this?” he motioned at Silas standing inside the marked space for the henhouse, stroking his chin and muttering to himself.

“Volunteer Kadar to help him?” Malik suggested. “I mean, as far as he knows, Kadar’s never even tried to steal from him. And Kadar,” Malik added with one hand pressed over his heart, “ _cares_.”

Altair snorted. The ugly apathy and tension that had made him unreadable a moment ago melted into the exhausted slump of his shoulders. “What about all the old men and the other idiots that show up for free food?”

“I don’t care,” might have been the truest thing Malik had ever said. He was brand new to being able to touch people and brand new to wanting to touch a specific person, and it left him with a confusing combination of ideas about how he wanted to touch Altair (just then, specifically) so his hand hovered in the overheated air between them for a second before it finally seemed to just give in and curl around Altair’s. 

“You’d really leave Kadar with this guy?”

Malik shrugged, “I saved him from a fairy, he owes me one.”

\--

They left Silas with the suggestion that Kadar might have better suggestions about the henhouse, being a self-proclaimed artist and all. Then they escaped before Kadar had a chance to realize their betrayal.

They don’t go back to the house (where the village council still were still talking while Mother insulted them to their face).

Instead they retreated to the forest and headed for the river where they could clean the sweat and dirt off their skin (and find some peace and quiet in a place without anyone else).

The water was blessedly cool when Malik waded into it with a sigh. Even Altair seemed less hesitant about it (but it could be that the prospect of drowning was less awful than the current state of his skin and clothes, all tacky with dried sweat).

Malik said, “we need to teach you to swim at some point.” as Altair cupped his hands and poured water over his head.

“Maybe some other time.” He wiped the water from his eyes. “ I don’t understand how you lived in this heat all these years.”

“It’s not always this hot.” The water cleared away some of the drowsiness, but still couldn’t muster the energy to actually remember which year it was when they’d had a cooler summer or try to work out if this summer was worse than any other in the past.

The shady riverbank looked like heaven to him. He’d spent enough time out here, beyond the unspoken dividing line between what was considered ‘safe’ by the villages. He knew (for a fact) that there was a nice patch of dirt not so far away that was good for a nap. 

“What if you can’t stop him?” Altair asked. He was crouching in the mud, using his rolled up shirt to scrub his chest clean. There was an obvious line of thought that led to the question. It was all there in Altair’s face: a clean sort of mask with no edges, and only the barest pink spot of hope.

“Do you know how to build a house?” Malik asked.

Altair’s eyebrow pulled all together in confusion. “I’ve never tried. I could probably figure it out.”

So he motioned behind him, to the whole of the forest (and shady and inviting as it was) where the people from his village were too afraid to go. “The village council’s law stops at the river. I don’t think they’d even make it more than six feet past the tree line. If I can’t stop him, and I’m pretty certain I could, there’s plenty of places to live out here.”

“Men like Cherry don’t give up,” Altair said. Because he’d seen it, because maybe he’d been on the wrong side of it before. 

Malik waded back over to where he was and dropped down to crouch at his side. “Then men like us won’t either,” he said. And then he smiled because Altair’s lip quirked upward. “I’ll fight for you,” he said. 

“I hope you don’t have to,” wasn’t what he expected. “I’m exhausted,” followed it up so quickly it was easy to think Altair hadn’t meant to say it either. Malik pulled him back up to standing and showed him where the best sleeping places were. It was shady and cool by the river, easy to close his eyes and listen to the cadence of the birds and the leaves and the gurgle of water over the river rocks. Altair was warm and close but not touching. 

“We do have to be back for lunch,” Malik mumbled. Just so neither of them forgot.

\--

They slept and might have been late for lunch (while, in his dreams, Malik was sucked into a long argument with a talking zucchini) if it were for the sudden splash of water that was thrown over them.

Malik jolted up with a gasp, but it wasn’t as spectacular a reaction as Altair’s which was to shout and actually push himself to standing and quickly backed away.

Kadar looked at them with a bucket in his hands and fury in his face. “You left me alone! With Silas! We were building the hen house all morning and we’re not anywhere near done because he’s never happy with how high the roof is, or how big the windows are! How could you? You sold out your brother! Your own brother!”

 

The last word was a whine and Malik sighed, brushing the water out of his eyes. It could be worse. It could have been shit.

“You’re both terrible people and you should be ashamed.” he said finally with a nod of his head. “I even came to get you before they formed a search party. And you abandoned me to work with Silas. All morning!”

Malik stared down at himself, his clothes and hair dripping wet. “Is there any time to change?”

Kadar held the bucket against his hip. “No. You can just go like that. It’s a good look on you.”

The water was plastered to Malik’s skin and, he thought, this wasn’t going to stop them from staring at all.

“Fuck you,” was Altair’s two-minute late reply to having water thrown on him. He was still on his feet, hands half-clenched for a fight with water dripping off the ends of his elbows. He rubbed his face with his palm and groaned (at the sheer fact he was awake at all, perhaps). “He’s already building the henhouse?” Altair bent to pick up his shirt, “didn’t he want imported wood or something stupid? Wasn’t there something about--”

“He had it!” Kadar shouted. “He had this _fragrant_ wood just sitting around! He had a stack of perfect fucking chicken wood in his shed. It took six trips to get it all.”

Altair just stared at Kadar, offering his hand to Malik to help him up to his feet without glancing away. “This man is definitely fucking these chickens.”

“Shut up,” Malik groaned.

“Yes!” Kadar shouted. “Exactly!”

And the two of them talked about fucking chickens and building henhouses the entire way home.

\--

Lunch was a quiet, damp affair. Malik sat on his blanket in the center of a crowd of (mostly) new faces. Mother had apparently agreed with the idea of having everyone bring their own lunch, and as such, there were much fewer people to gawk at him. The gathering of old men were still there, the fine upstanding elected officials sharing a blanket while they gummed at their lunches served out of whatever baskets their wives had handy.

Altair had declined to join because Kadar had seduce him away with stories of the henhouse. While Malik had no doubt Silas was insane and no doubt his quality standards were very high, he highly doubted that he’d demanded it have a six foot steeple. (At least, he hoped.) 

“Why are you all here?” Malik asked after five silent minutes. He had tried (and failed) to ignore the lecherous stares of old man #4 and old man #5 but they watched him without blinking. The whites of their eyes enlarged in such a way to make his skin crawl. (And one would have thought, after having the woman that helped teach him to read lust after him, there could be more uncomfortable circumstance. Still, the old men with the freckled balding heads and the healthy paunches made him feel steadily more dirty the longer they stared.) 

“I can answer that,” Pervis, the Mayor, said. 

“Ervil came to us yesterday,” said old man #3.

“--Yes, and he said that the whole village owed a debt and that we, as elected officials,” cut in #2.

“It’s very simple,” was #4, spitting crumbs out of his pink mouth. His voice was resonating up from the deepest pit of his belly. “Ervil hates to be embarrassed. He’s an embarrassing sort of fellow, isn’t he? He hates to be embarrassed and you--and this,” the old man motioned with hand to indicate the yard and the blankets and other observers, “well it’s very embarrassing isn’t it?”

“The fact is,” Pervis, the Mayor, said (very loudly), “Ervil argued with us all night about it. He kept us awake until almost dawn making speeches about how the village owed it to you to make things right.”

“I think we just wanted him to shut up,” was #2.

“Ervil saw how the curse affected Silas--how quickly he overcame it. Constable Cherry’s overcome it. Widow Greavy’s telling everyone she can that they should go ahead and get it over with.”

“Mary Dare told me,” came from a young man with a name that Malik never could quite remember. He was just sitting there, with no food, quietly listening to the (horny) old men talk.

Pervis waved his hand at the young man like it proved his point. As if it answered the question about why they were all there to start with. Malik rubbed the bridge of his nose and contemplated moving into the forest just for the sake of simplifying his life. 

“But _why_ ,” Malik repeated (slowly), “Are you here?”

It didn’t seem like a hard question, but no one (not even Pervis who had tried so hard to be heard over the others) was quick to volunteer to speak. The old man #5 burped.

“Excuse me.” He said without a hint of embarrassment. He dusted the crumbs on his shirt off then, while Pervis glared at him (possibly because there was such a thing as _decorum_ and it did not include belching in public). His eyes were still regarding Malik with a single-minded focus that was disquieting. 

“Look,” he said and it was clearly difficult but he peeled his eyes from Malik’s body, “Ervil was always butting heads with your Mother about you. He was the one who finally convinced the school the other children weren’t safe around you. He was convinced that the curse was the worst possible thing that could have happened to this village but last night he came to us and said that we’ve been wrong this whole time. We took an oath of office,” a piece of writing that had been scribbled down by someone long enough ago that the language that had once been vernacular sounded dated and like something someone’s great grandfather still used, “and we’re supposed to be sensible and protect the village. And that’s supposed to include you too.”

Pervis cleared his throat. “Yes. That. Ervil said we owed it to you, and believe me I was surprised that he was the one to bring it up out of everyone. But he has a point.”

Malik considered that bit of information. There was no immediate response that seemed to fit the information. 

“Mary Dare said there was food,” was the same guy who had interrupted earlier. 

“We stopped serving food,” Malik said. There was absolutely no venom in the words. He had meant for there to be but they came out toneless. He didn’t even bother rolling his eyes at the way the man sighed in disappointment. “Excuse me,” he said to the old men who were all still just staring at him.

While he was walking away, those still affected by the curse fell into talking about his ‘assets’. He went around the back of the house, to where he could hear Kadar and Altair laughing to themselves. What would eventually be a completed henhouse was (presently) just the skeleton of one. Silas was standing a few few off, stroking his chin and assessing what he’d done. Malik grabbed Altair by the bare arm and yanked him backward. 

“Hey!” Kadar shouted. “He’s helping with the henhouse.”

“You’ll get him back,” Malik shouted back. He dragged Altair back to the blanket and shoved him so he stumbled backward. Without his shirt on, the exact control he had over his own body was perfectly obvious. Someone else might have fallen gracelessly, but Altair seemed to just fold himself down to sitting. Malik stared at the (horny) old men, as their mouths gaped open. #4 looked as if he were on the verge of having a heart attack. 

‘ _What are we doing_ ’? Was what Altair mouthed up at him. His arms were spread out at either side. Malik didn’t see the point in answering him, when it was just as quick to sit in his lap. A week ago he wouldn’t have even conceived of the moment when he kissed his boyfriend in front of an assembled crowd of gawkers. But there he was, hands on Altair’s face, tongue-kissing him in front of old men and a few morons that came for the free food. 

The curse made people possessive, regardless of whether the victims were love struck or just lusting after him. Years before Sarah Keller had made death threats at Altair, another old lady had bitten a man for trying to hold Malik’s hand.

It was not the only reason that made Malik wary, but it was one of those experiences that just left a strong impression (it was hard not to forget how the nice, squat lady who fed strays and always offered passing children sweets, still smelling like fresh baked bread launching herself at a six foot tall man).

But he was tired of being worried, tired of being scared of what would happen if he walked too close to Altair or touched him too much or looked at him too long in front of a crowd. He didn’t want to have to sit and think of false pretenses and excuses before acting.

He kissed Altair like he was issuing a challenge and Altair let Malik take the lead, only tipping his head when Malik lifted his chin to give himself a better angle. He did not reach up to touch Malik and since it was likely that Altair didn’t know anything of shame it might have been self-preservation (but it could also have been an arrogant display of how he didn’t need to hold Malik down to keep him there. It was hard to tell what went on in Altair’s head most of the time).

Someone in the background whimpered as others started to protest (and maybe some were silent. It was impossible to tell without looking). Malik was certain he had all their attentions regardless of what sounds they made.

When he pulled back he was breathing hard, his heart racing in a confusing mix of mild panic, embarrassment as well as an all-consuming feeling of accomplishment. It was like the time he’d climbed to the top of the tree outside their house the very first time, long before the fairy, when he was still afraid of his feet slipping on the branches and falling.

_Why had it taken him that long?_ That was a thought he’d had.

Looking right was looking straight into the crowd of old men, trying to take stock of their heartbreak, and their anguish. And the unsubtle way #4 had shoved his hand down under his rounded gut to grope at himself right out in public. Malik’s hand clenched around whatever fleshy bit of Altair’ he had (his arm, maybe, recently stabbed by a different suitor) and Altair complained with a hiss but turned his head. He wavered, looking around for whatever he was supposed to see and when he finally did see it--that sultry, embarrassing motion of #4’s elbow, Altair coughed because he was trying not to laugh.

“I see,” Pervis snapped at him. “I don’t understand why I let myself be talked into this. I don’t have to--” and he looked around at his picnic blanket and caught sight of #4 (just going at it) before reaching across to slap him. “Sit here.” He had to slap #4 twice before he snapped out of the trance he was in, “and tolerate this.”

“That’s not fair,” Altair said. He had wound one arm around Malik in an effort to making sitting up easier. “I think he’s enjoying it.”

“I don’t enjoy being--ridiculed,” Pervis snarled.

“Well, I didn’t enjoy most of my life, so I don’t give a fuck,” Malik said. He hadn’t even thought of the words before he was saying them. He hadn’t considered the consequences, or the implications or anything but the anger and the giddy feeling of accomplishment. “You’ll get over the curse,” he said, “it’ll take you five days at the most, but I have to deal with the fact that all of you blamed me because it was easier. So sit there and _be humiliated_. Maybe you’ll figure out why Ervil talked you into it.”

“Well,” was his Mother’s voice--sweet and impartial. “I think that’s enough for one sitting.” She motioned everyone toward the gate and they all picked up their blankets as they went. When the young man bemoaning the lack of free food handed his blanket over, Mother frowned at him. “I don’t expect to see you at dinner time.”

“Uh,” the kid said, “no ma’am.”

“Arwa,” said #4 when he stepped past her (red as a tomato). 

“Say hello to your wife,” Mother said. And she said it with a straight face while Altair collapsed back on the blanket. 

\--

Long after everyone had disappeared from sight, Altair was still lying back on the picnic blanket, his entire body shaking from the force of his laughter.

Mother had gone back inside after a brief shake of her head (that wasn’t disapproving, exactly), and Malik stayed sitting, close enough that he could pulled up a bunch of grass and drop it on Altair.

“I can’t believe that happened.” He said, distractedly as Altair sat up, brushing the grass from his chest and neck.

“I can.” Altair said, pulling Malik close as if to kiss him, then stopped short of it. His smile was as much a tease as his actions were and Malik rolled his eyes at it.

But his reached over to take Altair’s hand in his anyway.

“Even the part where a council member was masturbating in public?”

Altair shrugged even as his face was all pink with the strain of not breaking out into laughter again. “Everyone masturbates. We shouldn’t discriminate.” He finally managed to squeeze out even if his voice shook at the end.

Malik sighed and this close it was a tangible thing against Altair’s face. “I don’t--he’s older than my Mother. I didn’t need to see that.”

“Think of it as a public service, you livened up his sex life for a day.” Altair was far too pleased with himself, and Malik, and the whole disaster. But his smile faded at the edges the longer he looked at him. “And nobody tried to bite me or stab me or put me in jail.”

That was an easy point to concede (although if any of those things had happened they would have been Malik’s fault to start with). “Silas is still here though, so one or all of those things are still a possibility.”

“Come on,” Altair said as he got up to his feet. “We shouldn’t leave your brother alone with him. He’s too impressionable.”

\--

The afternoon was unimpressive. Malik sat in the shade watching Altair arguing with Silas while Kadar stood inside the skeleton of the henhouse (to be), trading back and forth on his opinions. It didn’t matter to Kadar (at all) whether the hen house was whitewashed or if the wood was fragrant or if the garden had essential nutrients. Kadar (as far as Malik knew) didn’t know the difference between a rooster and a hen, much less the difference between roosters.

But there he was, leaning his elbows against a wood post saying, “no I think the Dutch Bantam is a much better rooster than the Aconca. If the quality of egg depends on the good looks of the cock, you can’t beat the Dutch Bantam.” Every single word that Kadar said was overwhelmed with sincerity.

Altair was open-mouthed with disbelief.

“Finally,” Silas shouted. “A voice of reason.”

“The Marsh Daisy,” Altair snapped. It was inconceivable that along with his various criminal acts, artistic talents and (good looks) Altair had any sort of specialized knowledge of _chickens_ , but he pointed his finger at Silas the very second the old man wavered with indecision. The conversation (up to that point) had been entirely directed by Silas, led along by Kadar and his regurgitation of funny chicken names. 

Marsh Daisy was the turning point, the moment when Silas smiled, really _smiled_ at Altair. He leaned across the space between them and slapped his hand against Altair’s (recently stabbed) arm. “Marsh Daisy,” he repeated. “Now that’s a fine looking cock.”

Kadar had to turn his whole body to keep from bursting into laughter. Malik was biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from ruining the moment, but Altair was just standing there, staring Silas (who may have fornicated with chickens) straight in the face. “Yes it is,” Altair agreed and just for a half second, his eyes flicked over to Malik and it seemed like he meant to wink (but didn’t).

That was just too much to handle. Malik breathed in deeply and said, “I’ll get everyone some water.” Because Silas was as friendly as he ever was with any human being and Malik felt like it’d be ruined if he suddenly burst out laughing.

He was closing the door behind him just as Silas began talking about nasturtiums and where to plant them. “--so the girls can have them as a treat when they want.”

The moment Malik was back inside the house, he slumped on a chair. His arms were on the table and he buried his face in them as his shoulders shook with laughter.

Mother didn’t even bother to spare him a look, just shook her head and went back to her work.

\--

Dinner was far less eventful than lunch. The entire council opted not to appear though Malik couldn’t know who had spearheaded that particular decision or if they had collectively decided on it.

Malik found that he didn’t really care. 

The few that did bother to show themselves sat in clusters, eating whatever they’d brought for dinner--making small talk about how the weather had been unusually warm. Kadar had bothered to make an appearance and invited himself to sit with a knot of boys that he’d gone to school with. He had them laughing over something that Malik couldn’t hear (or care about). 

Altair was sitting at his side, leaning their (uninjured) shoulders together. “I’m tired,” he said.

Malik nodded, “exhausted.”

“Silas is coming in the morning to finish the henhouse. He says if we put all our backs into it, we should be able to get it done in one day.” Altair looked at him, “I think that means you have to help.”

“Sure,” Malik said. “We could probably go to bed once they leave.” Because the light was fading in the sky and the heat was finally giving way to something like a cool breeze. The thought of sleep was a brilliant idea just then. “To sleep,” he added.

Altair snorted. “Sure. _Sleep._ ”


	14. Chapter 14

Mornings weren’t such torture anymore. There was still a nagging worry about what might happen, but after having told off the village council and made out with Altair in front of a crowd, the fear he’d held onto all these years seemed trivial and stupid.

He still did not appreciate being awake so early simply to be dragged outside to help build the henhouse.

The grass was still glistening with dew drops that soaked into the edge of his pants and into his socks, and Malik thought just because Silas liked to wake up with his chickens should not mean everyone else needed to.

Malik was grumbling uncharitable things under his breath as he worked with Kadar to start building one of the walls of the coop. Off to the side, Silas and Altair were laying out the boards where the run was going to be while Silas talked about the stain glass window he wanted.

“There should be a rooster on it. A handsome, proud bird in bright colours so when the sun hits it just right,” Silas pinched his thumb and forefinger close to indicate (maybe) how short a period of time it’d be, “he’ll glow.”

Altair nodded. “We’ll put the best cock on there.”

Kadar snorted, hiding his laughter behind a cough. Malik rolled his eyes because the early morning robbed him of any humour he might have felt (and he thought, if Altair got a window featuring anything but a rooster that Silas was going to skin him alive).

\--

Mother pulled him away from the henhouse (and Malik did not protest) and inside where the same six old men from the day before were assembled. They were dressed in a less officially; #4 looked like he had barely managed to get dressed at all. Pervis was standing at the head of the flock, with his whole face still cinched together in an unhappy knot.

“We just came to see you,” Pervis said to him, “and we have.”

Malik glanced at Mother (and her expression was pure disdain) before looking back over at the men. He almost missed the way #4’s expression changed as he looked at him, the unwinding realization on his shiny, pink face as he looked at Malik with obvious expectation and failed to find what he was looking for. 

“Oh,” Mother said to him, “don’t worry about that, Laurence. The curse wears off rapidly when you’re able to remember the things that really matter.” Every word she spoke was pure venom, starting out looking at #4 and ending with her staring directly at Pervis (the Mayor). 

“Arwa,” Pervis growled.

“You saw me,” Malik cut in. He wasn’t certain (exactly) what he’d missed before his Mother called for him, much the same he wasn’t completely sure he’d ever understand the constant war that Mother had waged against the lawmakers of the village on his behalf. But he didn’t like the way Pervis said her name, (or any of them), like she was _unreasonable_. “You came to see me,” he said when Pervis looked at him. “And you’ve seen me. So you can go.”

“You’re an ugly child,” Pervis said.

Malik smiled at him, “but the heart wants what the fairy’s curse says it does.” He raised his hand to wave them back toward the door. Pervis went first, turning like a dancer in a tight circle and stomping his way to the front door. The others crept after him, one by one, leaving only #4 left to look at him. 

“Well,” he said, even toned and without embarrassment, “I should thank you, young man. If I had better manners, I think I would apologize but yesterday was the most fun I’ve had since I was your age. By God, it was fun.” Then he nodded at Mother and left before Malik had time to digest that comment.

He hadn’t exactly meant to say it, but he found himself looking at his Mother saying, “did he just thank me for--for--arousing him?”

Mother’s smile was so pink and amused (at his expense), “I think he did,” she said. 

\--

They worked with only a few breaks until breakfast. If they were building a normal henhouse (instead of a luxury version of one) they’d probably be done or nearly done.

But as it stood, there was still some work left to be done by the time Mother came to call them for breakfast. To Silas’ protests she said, “you need food to have energy to work.” And that was the end of it.

Malik had stopped paying attention to the faces in the crowd. But Malik did notice the small gasp when he stepped out of the house. There was a small group of women (sisters, he remembered, the youngest of whom had been in the same class as him back when he was still in school), new faces that were staring at him with varying degrees rosy blushes blooming across their cheeks as they stared at him. One of them had covered her mouth with her hands, another looked away but the last one, the youngest whose name Malik remembered was Sophie (the other two were Sally and Suzy though he’d never known which one was which), smiled at him. “Hello.”

Malik said, “we’re not serving food.” for the lack of anything else to say. It made Kadar elbow him and Altair smirk.

“Oh, that’s fine.” Sophie held up a basket from which wafted the faint, pleasant smell of baked things, a mix of something savoury and sweet. “We brought some stratas and muffins with us. You could come share with us.” For all that she seemed almost to talk normally to him except for the faint blush on her face, there was a hopeful tone to her voice when she made the offer that was telling. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “Mama also baked a pie.” Here she nudged Sally-or-Suzy who was staring at her shoes, the tips of her ears bright red as she held out another basket.

She mumbled, “Mama said to give her regards to your Mother.”

“Unfortunately,” Kadar said before Malik could open his mouth to explain a thing, “Malik has to sit other there,” he motioned at the spot where the grass had been rubbed down by his blanket. “It wouldn’t be fair if he sat with anyone, since everyone wants to sit with him.” And Kadar rubbed his hands down his thighs to wipe away the dirt and sawdust, “I could sit with you, if you’d like.”

“I don’t know what kind of girls you take us for,” (Sally-or-Suzy) said. “That we’d just sit with any man, even if we didn’t know him.” And she turned her nose up at him and twirled around to find a suitable blanket to sit on. 

The other (Sally-or-Suzy) made a disgruntled, disapproving noise. “I’ve got a mind to tell Claudia about this.”

“No,” Kadar whined immediately and shuffled after (Sally-or-Suzy) and her basket of food. “Look I wasn’t tryin--” Malik stopped listening to his brother’s grovelling because Altair’s arm slid around his shoulders. His attention was dragged back to Sophie, still holding her basket of fragrant and delicious food, and how she was leveling a murderous glare at Altair.

Neither of them spoke, just stood there making death threats with their eyes. 

“He likes dick,” Altair said after the longest of awkward pauses. And Malik thought about slapping him, but he didn’t have a chance before Sophie, with narrow eyes and her sweet voice turned cold as ice, said: 

“That must be the only reason he likes you. _You_ are a dick,” she said and dropped her eyes to glance at Altair’s groin, “I’ve probably got a bigger penis than you, if that’s what he likes.” Then she twirled like her sisters and stomped away. 

Malik didn’t push Altair away, but he did sigh at him. He didn’t say, “was that really necessary?” because by this point he knew that Altair thought it was. Instead he said, “aren’t you bored of talking about cocks yet?” and also, “why are you having a dick waving contest with a girl?”

Neither of which were things Malik ever thought he’d ever need to ask. (Then again, he also never thought he’d be in a position where one of the village council members thanked him for arousing him.)

“She started it.” Altair said and grinned when Malik rolled his eyes at him.

\--

The plan was to continue working on the henhouse after breakfast. 

But Kadar had disappeared shortly before the breakfast crowd began to disperse (Malik couldn’t be sure but if he had to place bets he’d put his money on his brother going to find the seamstress girl before Sally-or-Suzy could), and Mother took him by the arm on his way out back.

“George Hardison has some piglets that were recently weaned. I had spoken to him about buying them but I haven’t had time to go take a look.” Mother said, handing him only the heavy outer layer out of the many he usually wore. Malik looked back into the house, towards his room and wondered if he shouldn’t put on another layer.

“Silas wanted some plants for the garden. I should ask him for a list and pick up those while I’m in town.” There was no question that he’d have to go since Kadar was missing and Altair wouldn’t know where George Hardison’s farm was (or maybe he did) and was far more likely to get into a fight with someone still under the power of the curse.

\--

Malik ended up in town to catch Marta who came to town once a week to stop by Widow Gillis’ to have a meal and catch up on the chatter from the village. Silas had explained this to him with a squinted eye, because apparently Marta excelled at raising plants of all sorts. In fact, in Silas’ opinion, Marta’s plants were so hardy and so vibrant and so full of the appropriate nutrients for chickens that the only possible explanation was witchcraft. (Silas chuckled when he said it and Malik couldn’t figure out if he thought witchcraft was funny or if he were attempting to make a joke.) 

He’d spent too long in the side yard of his house wearing a single shirt and a single pair of pants because the heavy layer of clothing felt suddenly like a suffocating weight and the hood that should have been as familiar to him as his own hair felt like a constant, nagging stranger. He hovered at the edge of the village square, watching people coming and going, thinking about how he was going to be able to identify Marta (she had white hair and she wore brown and she smelled like parsnips). Or even how to approach her. 

He was tucked behind the corner of a building, neatly hidden by the shade, waiting to see anyone that looked like a possible horticultural witch. He gave it a minute, and then two and then he left his spot and went to find George (the baker). 

“Hello Malik,” George called to him. He was standing out in front of his shop with a sack of flour over his shoulder, sweating profusely in the heat. Even just air beyond his shop seemed to be ten degrees past hell (never mind what it must have been like far closer to the ovens). 

“Have you seen my brother?” Malik asked.

“I can’t say I have,” George said. He dropped the flour down to rest against one of his legs and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Now what’s all this I heard about Silas giving you chickens?”

“Not me,” Malik answered. “Mother got him to agree to it.”

“Silas has the best eggs for baking but he’s got a corner on the market.” George was just looking at him with expectation that Malik might be able to change that. And while he was sure Kadar would have immediately taken advantage of any chance to make money, Malik had no interest in destroying the fragile arrangement they had with Silas.

“Have you heard of a woman named Marta?” Malik asked.

“The witch?” George said. “She should be over with Widow Gillis, I think. So you’ll ask your Mother about the eggs then?”

Malik hesitated, “I think her agreement with Silas includes a guarantee not to sell the eggs.” But he raised his hand in thanks for directions (that he already had). And George nodded back and picked up his flour. Which left Malik back exactly where he started: standing around acting like he didn’t know what he was doing.

It just happened that, in the exact second he was weighing whether or not to approach the possible witch (not that he necessarily believed Silas) alone, the door to the seamstress’s shop opened up and Kadar stumbled out backward. Claudia was right there too, poking his chest with her pointed finger clutching a length of cloth in one hand. 

“--and you should take a minute to think about that!” was the part of the argument that Malik heard. 

Kadar was raising his arm in protest, all set to open his mouth and get himself in more trouble but Claudia slammed the door in his face.

“Claudia!” But Kadar stopped at that, maybe understanding that repeatedly knocking on the door wouldn’t be in his favour. He looked like a kicked puppy standing there until Malik cleared his throat.

Kadar might have been more embarrassed about the whole thing and Malik might have been a lot more awkward addressing it if not for the times Kadar had come crying to Malik when they were younger over similar things. Like the time when Kadar was six and had been Alice Pont’s boyfriend for all of one day before she dumped him for a teddy bear. Or the time he was fifteen and his True Love moved away when her father found his spiritual calling and decided to relocate his family eastwards.

Malik never had any practical advice to give, but he was always there to listen (and to give Kadar a pat on the head when it was needed).

Malik said, “maybe you should try again later.”

A sigh, then, “maybe.” Kadar looked at the door again longingly before he stepped to where Malik was, “what are you doing here?”

“Silas said I should buy plants for the chickens from a woman named Marta.” Who was apparently a witch. “And I’m supposed to go talk to George Hardison about buying some piglets.”

Kadar smiled a little. “They sent you to buy things?” He stuck his hands in his pockets, “George Hardison’s not going to let you pass through the gate. I mean, unless all fourteen of his daughters aren’t home.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets to run them through his hair in a way that did nothing to smooth it down and everything to make it fluffier. 

“I don’t want his daughters, I want his piglets,” Malik said. 

“I’m sure he cares. So where’s this woman with the plants?” He stared at Malik for a half-beat and then motioned at him. “Give me the money. You shouldn’t even be allowed to hold it. What was Mother thinking?”

“Probably something like, ‘where the hell did Kadar go without telling anyone’?” Malik pointed over toward Widow Gillis’ and said, “Silas said she’s probably a witch.”

“Good,” Kadar said as he tucked the money out of sight, “witches love me.” He motioned Malik to follow him. After striding confidently up to the door, Kadar stopped at the last second with his hand reaching out to grab the door handle. He curled his fingers inward and turned his head to look at Malik, “a real witch?”

Malik shrugged. 

Then Kadar opened the door and walked inside without missing a beat. He paused a second in the doorway to allow his eyes adjust to the dimmer light on the inside and glanced around, “white haired woman that looks like she sleeps in the hollow part of a dead tree?” he motioned (but didn’t point) at the woman in the far corner with Widow Gillis. “That’s probably the plant witch, right?” 

Malik didn’t bother to agree with him. He just pulled the list of plants he’d been sent to purchase out of his pocket and handed it Kadar. If he lingered back a half-step it was only because witches probably wouldn’t work out for him any better than fairies had. 

“Excuse me,” Kadar said when he invited himself over to the table. “I apologize for interrupting but as I understand it, you don’t stay in town for long.”

Marta looked up at Kadar and then glanced sideways to Widow Gillis. She cocked up an eyebrow that seemed to have some kind of deeper significance to it. Widow Gillis nodded in a way that seemed to convey the idea that things were ‘okay’ and so Marta said, “you must be the boys Silas is giving his chickens to. I never thought someone would pry those biddies away from his cold dead body.” She snatched the list out of Kadar’s hand. “So which one of you got a gift from a fairy?”

“Uh,” Kadar said and pointed a thumb at Malik, “him.”

Marta turned to him and Malik could have cursed his brother out right then and there. His entire body was tense as Marta pulled out a pair of spectacles and then squinted at him from behind them (the lens seemed to shimmer blue for the briefest moment before settling into the usual colourless glass).

“Well,” She said, “you certainly found a creative one. The fair-folk don’t always have much of an imagination.”

Malik thought, _lucky me_ but even if he was learning to not be afraid of the curse, he wasn’t in any hurry to make things worse (he did learn something after all these years).

“Oh, don’t look like that.” Marta said with a huff as she pulled her spectacles off. “I’m not going to do anything to you.”

Malik nodded but didn’t make any attempt to move closer. Kadar, however, asked, “are you really a witch?” and that made Malik kick him.

Marta shared a look with Widow Gillis. “That’s one word for it.” Then she held up a hand, “before you ask, young man. No, I can’t do anything about the fairy’s gift.”

“The only one who can do anything is the fairy who gave it to me.” Malik said, paraphrasing from a book he’d read.

“Yes.” Marta said, “and it’s best not to rely on fairies. Or on magic, really. Besides,” She tilted her head with a slight smile, “from what I’ve heard you’ve been figuring things out by yourself just fine.”

Malik shrugged. He thought, it would have been easier if the curse just disappeared.

“Well, now.” Marta said and turned back to the list, “let’s see what that old, chicken-nut wants.”

Kadar snorted but he looked almost instantly repentant about it. It wasn’t the time (or the company) to be snickering about Silas or his chickens. Not that it mattered to Kadar that he was standing arms-length away from a witch of unknown character (or ability), he was just standing there looking like he would start rocking back and forth on his feet like a bored child any second. 

Marta eyed the list with a curl of her lips and shook her head when she reached the end of it. The motion of it seemed to shake loose a bit of dust from her hair (shock white, despite the dust). “It would take half the effort as all this to get chickens from any other man, and they’re just as good.”

“Well,” Kadar said, “we’ve already decided on the Marsh Daisy rooster being the most seductive, and his boyfriend’s already started sketching the stained glass window for the henhouse. At this point, we might as well take Silas’ chickens.”

“I suppose,” Marta said. She looked sideways at Malik again, “might be a lucrative investment if the old man ever kicks the bucket.” She folded the paper in half and tucked it away in the folds of her dress. “I’ll bring the order with me next week, this same time. You just meet me here.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Kadar said. He took two half-steps backward before he turned around (as if he might have accidentally become aware he was talking to a witch). “Come on,” he said to Malik, like he needed prompting to leave. “Let’s go see about the piglets.”

“If you’re heading to George Hardison’s place, thirteen of his very pretty daughters are home right now,” Widow Gillis said. Then she turned her full attention back to Marta. 

Once they were outside again, blinking away the sudden brightness of the sunshine, Kadar huffed unhappily in the direction of the seamstress’s shop. “There’s no point in either of us trying to go see George Hardison about some piglets if his daughters are home.” He patted down his pockets looking for the coins he’d stashed earlier, “so why don’t you go home and tell Mom we got the plants but she’ll have to go get the piglets herself?”

“And you’ll what, go back and get yelled at again? I told Mom I’d get the piglets.”

“Well you’re stupid, that’s been established.”

Malik did not often kick his brother, but when he did, he tried to make it memorable enough that Kadar wouldn’t repeat his stupid behaviors. (It hadn’t worked, not once in all their lives, despite Malik’s efforts.) “We’re going to get the piglets.”

“It’ll be a waste of time,” Kadar whined. “Look at me,” he motioned at his whole body, “I’m a young, virile, handsome man! He’ll take one look at me and close the gates. He’ll call the Constable. He’ll start ranting about how I covet his daughters. I don’t even covet his daughters. I covet a lot of people’s daughters, but not his.”

Malik crossed his arms over his chest and Kadar got that stupid grin on his face he got when he knew he was losing a fight but wouldn’t give. “We get the piglets or I’ll take Altair for two weeks.”

“Malik!” Kadar shouted. “Our profits are important, our business model is only sustainable--”

Rather than stay and argue the point, Malik started walking. Kadar chased after him exactly the same way he had when they were kids.

\--

George Hardison was the owner of one of the largest farms in the village. It was one of the reasons why raising fourteen daughters hadn’t bankrupted the man.

That and the fact that George always knew where to find a bargain and where to squeeze extra money out of any business transaction (it was rhyme some of the village kids had made up years ago, _George Hardison drives the hardest bargain_ and there was something about being a miser that no one dared to sing after George’s second eldest daughter, Clarissa, had broken some boy’s nose for singing it).

Which was why Kadar had to come along and be the one to negotiate (because Malik would stand about as much a chance as a deer did against a wolf).

But George Hardison had taken one look at the pair of them, pointed at Kadar and said, “he can’t come in.” And Kadar had been ready to say, _I told you so_ , when George squinted at Malik like he was considering something. “Rumour has it you found yourself a man.”

Malik shouldn’t have been surprised that rumours had traveled this far given the amount of fuss they’d kicked up. (And yet it was just a bit embarrassing to know that so many people knew.)

Finally, Malik nodded.

George put hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. He was still squinting at Malik suspiciously. “You married him yet?” He asked like only marriage could prove that Malik wasn’t going to whisk away one of his precious daughters.

There was a silence in which Malik tried to wrap his head around that (and Kadar tried not to burst out laughing). “I’ve only known him for two weeks.” He said.

“But you’re into men?”

Malik nodded.

George looked up into the sky for a moment. Then he said, “swear on your Mother’s honour that it’s true and I’ll let you in.”

The absurdity of the request hadn’t even managed to catch up with Malik before Kadar was already protesting. “Can’t we just make the deal here?”

“You gotta see the piglets. I’m not selling them to you blind. No one can say old George Hardison’s does dishonest business.”

It was important to move the process along before Kadar’s attempts to contain himself failed and he burst like an overfilled sack. Standing at Malik’s right elbow, he was _vibrating_ in place from trying not to laugh. So Malik said, “I swear on my Mother’s honor that I’m into men.”

George paused a minute to gauge the sincerity of the words. “And only men?”

“Yes,” Malik said. “I only dream of dicks, can I please see the piglets?”

“I don’t think there’s any need to be so crass about it.” George spared Kadar another stern look, “step away from the gate. I know about _you_ ,” as if Kadar were such a threat. (Which he might have been.) Kadar obediently stepped back and George was satisfied enough to let Malik in through the front gate of his farm. “Now, since it’s your Mother that asked me about my piglets, I’m willing to overlook your insensitive language. If it were anyone else, I might have raised my prices for the offense my ears took to hearing such crudeness.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her,” Malik said. He followed along the path, on-and-on (and on, and on, and on, wondering if they would ever reach the piglets and if George Hardison even had a house on this farm, and where the hell it was even hidden at), until they finally arrived at the pig pens. It was only after they’d gotten there that Malik remembered, “my brother is carrying the money.”

“I can collect it from him at the gate.” He motioned at the pigpen like he expected Malik to know what to do at the site of the intimidatingly large full grown hogs and the squeaky, pink little piglets. They regarded one another, Malik’s complete incomprehension of what should happen next neatly hidden under the cowl, and George Hardison’s budding impatience becoming steadily more apparent the longer they stood there. “Well, aren’t you going to inspect them?” He motioned at the pen, “pick them for yourself?” And when Malik hesitated (again), George seemed to be even more irritated. “Son,” he said with one hand clasping around Malik’s shoulder. “I understand that you lost your father early and you’ve had difficulties,” (which was an understatement), “but I’ve known your Mother since we were all children. I know that she raised you right. You don’t just accept the first piglets you’re offered. You have to inspect the piglets.”

“How do I get to the piglets to inspect them?” Malik asked. It was a far easier question to ask than trying to unravel everything George Hardison just said to him. 

“Go into the pen--not that one.” George Hardison didn’t shout (shouting in an area full of animals with significantly more muscle mass than you was always a poor idea) when Malik put his hand on one of the gates. “Here.” He said, nudging Malik towards another gate and Malik only noticed belatedly that there was a fence separating the piglets from the adults. His cowl hid his embarrassment at missing this detail as he stepped into the pen.

The piglets came just above Malik’s ankle. Their size didn’t do much to make Malik less nervous as he tried to remember anything at all about what to look for in a piglet. He crouched down and tried to look at George Hardison out of the corner of his eyes to gauge of he was doing anything wrong. The man’s face was unreadable so Malik turned back to the piglets squealing and running around in the pen.

At least they were energetic.

And wasn’t that one of the things to look for? But what else was there?

George Hadrison, never quite a patient man except when it comes to his girls said, “pick them up. Get a good look at the face. Check their feet.”

Malik stared blankly at the piglets, one of which had broken away from the group to snuffle at Malik’s feet. “What if I drop it?” Was a whisper (and he sounded just a little bit terrified).

“Ha.” He said while leaning against the side of the pen, “then you buy it.”

Which did little to assuage Malik’s worries, but since that was all the help he was getting he reached down the pick up the piglet at his feet. It squealed in protest at being handled and squirmed wildly and Malik was certain he was going to _drop_ it and maybe give the poor thing brain damage--

\--and then it just stopped and stared at him, suddenly still. Its eyes were clear and bright. He remembered belatedly that he also needed to look at the nose.

Once Malik remembered one thing, it was easier to remember the next. Check the snout, then the naval and the hooves. One thing after another and he thought, he wasn’t sure what the problems he was checking for looked like exactly, but the piglet’s nose was a healthy pink, its stomach didn’t seem to be bloated and its hooves kicked in the air as Malik held it up.

It was easier to check the second piglet (and the third, fourth, eleventh piglet). He picked them all up just to keep up the appearance of being a shrewd and educated consumer but he would have been just as pleased to pay for the first two he got his hands on. By the time he finished waddling through the mud, and individually quality checking the piglets, his hair was dripping sweat into his face. 

“They’re all fine pigs, aren’t they?” George asked him. There was no sign he was mocking anyone, but all the same, Malik felt that he’d just been asked to do an entirely pointless task. “They’ll fatten up quick as a whip, too.” 

Malik grabbed the first two piglets he managed to get his hands on and carried them over to the gate. George was there to open it for him. Everything his Mother had ever taught him about being polite was summed up by Malik not grinding his teeth when he said, “thank you.”

And all the long, long, long walk back to the gate, he was concentrating on not dropping his piglets while listening to a lecture about the importance of making intelligent choices. (“Now imagine if you hadn’t checked the piglets,” George said, “and you’d just picked up the first one you’d gotten your hands on. Well you would have ended up with an inferior product, without even knowing it. I pride myself on superior quality but there are merchants in the world that aren’t so dedicated. I know, it’s a disgrace…”)

Kadar was sitting on grass with his back against the tree just beyond the front gate when they (finally) arrived. He jumped back up to his feet. “I was starting to think the worst,” he said. All his forward motion was brought to a standstill by the way George cleared his throat. “I have to come over to the gate,” Kadar said. “I’m the one with the money.”

Malik considered throwing one of the piglets at him. It would have been unfair to the cute, fat, pink little animal so he said, “you could hold the piglets for a minute and I’ll go get the money.”

George was too busy glaring at his brother to agree or disagree but he did accept the piglets when Malik shoved them into his hands. 

He went to collect the bag of coins from Kadar (who hadn’t been allowed within two metres of the gate). “Mother said you agreed to three coins for each piglet.”

From behind him, Kadar made a sound like _surprise_ and awe.

“Yes.” George Hardison said as he accepted the coins. That involved passing one of the squealing piglets back to Malik so he’d have a hand free. When Malik took the second piglet he counted the coins again. “Your Mother knows how to drive a hard bargain all right. Well,” He said as he closed his hands over the coins before pocketing them. “Looks like everything is in order.”

Malik nodded but Kadar was the one who said, “it was nice doing business with you.” which earned him another suspicious glare. Kadar, in all his wisdom, did not grin back.

He was handed a piglet to carry by Malik as they left the Hardison farm behind.

“Three coins,” Kadar said as the piglet protested being passed to someone else briefly before settling down again. “How did she do that? I was thinking maybe we could talk him down to nine--maybe even eight for both. But three for each?” Kadar whistled. “That’s amazing.”

The piglet in Malik’s arm kicked its feet in the air as they walked. Malik didn’t actually have much to add. Haggling was an art that he never had the patience for so he didn’t have any real opinions on the whole outcome beyond enjoying the outcome where they paid less than he expected.

Kadar, on the other hand, was still whispering, “three coins!” like it was a revelation. Then it was, “hey, didn’t you also get Altair for three coins?”

Malik snorted at that. “No, he turned me down. You got Altair with a job offer.” 

“Oh, that’s right,” Kadar said. Then he tipped the piglet up to look at its face. “How long does it take them to get fat enough to eat?”

“They’re babies,” Malik said. 

“Edible babies.”

Malik rolled his eyes and clutched the piglet a little closer to his side. “What are you going to do about Claudia?” he asked, not because he cared, but because he didn’t want to talk about how they were going to eat the piglets when they grew up.

\--

It was lunch time before Malik and Kadar made it home. The crowd was thinner at lunch, either by people becoming a immune or by the sheer virtue of having too many other obligations to worry over showing up to gawk at Malik’s cursed face. 

“Was she really a witch?” was the very first thing Altair asked as soon as Malik was sitting on the blanket next to him. They shared a sandwich between them: Altair was shirtless and sweating, looking infinitely more distracting than Malik ever could have. Between the leanness of his body showcasing his every single muscle and the random scars he had here-and-there, it seemed improbable that anyone would notice or care about Malik sitting in two layers of black clothing just next to him. “I didn’t get a straight answer from Silas. He might just think all women are witches.”

“She’s a witch,” Malik said. “How’s the henhouse?”

“Well it’s minus a stained glass window featuring a plump, attractive cock and garden and a fence but otherwise it seems to meet his standards. He left before you got here. It seems Priscilla’s been fussy about how often he’s been gone away from home.” And Altair smiled with obvious, sadistic, pornographic glee about how Silas had run home to tend to one of his chickens.

Malik should be berating him for it, or at least discouraging him. But it was easier (and infinitely more appealing), to scootch closer and put a hand on Altair’s chest. “That’s good.” He said, almost like an afterthought because it didn’t actually matter what Silas did or didn’t do with his dear Priscilla when the way Altair’s smile cut across his face made him far more interested in what he could do with Altair.

Malik had a thought that if the curse felt anything like this, if it were even a little bit like it, he could maybe understand why it drove people to the lengths it did. Malik was sure the feeling wouldn’t (ever) drive him to buy up all the flowers in town to create an extravagant display (because he wasn’t insane or had that much disposable income on hand), but sometimes, the feeling was so immense it seemed to scramble his thoughts until he couldn’t seem to help it but to move _closer_ until Altair was close enough to touch.

It was a bit embarrassing, really.

“Are we really getting a stained glass window?” Malik said as he idly drew circles on Altair’s skin. “I wasn’t sure if we were being serious about that.”

Altair didn’t bother with being straight-faced when he asked, “do you think he fucks around when it comes to chickens?” and Malik remembered why it was a bad idea to let the idiot talk sometimes.

He rolled his eyes, “you need to stop obsessing about Silas and his chickens.” 

Altair shifted how he was sitting so his shoulders were leaning forward and his legs were crossed in front of him. It made it harder to touch him and look casual about it (not that Malik was very good at looking casual to start with). He rubbed his hand through his hair as he looked at the others that were staring at him hatefully. “We’ll have to get more supplies if we make a stained glass window, even a small one would be difficult to make with the glass you find in the forest.” He paused just a breath. “And we need more of that glass too.”

“We can go look for it this afternoon,” Malik said. He motioned his hand toward the complete lack of his brother. “Since Kadar’s preoccupied.” 

\--

The afternoon was spent in the shady parts of the forest, picking through the forest debris to find the bits of bright colored glass. 

“Who lived here?” Altair asked him when they were three-foot from what remained of a stone wall. The glass was most plentiful closest to the vine-covered ruins. Here and there it was possible to find pieces that glittered in sunlight. Malik had never thought much of it, figured it for a trick of the eye, but Altair stood there tipping a piece of it one way and the other with unashamed fascination.

“Don’t know,” Malik answered. “Before me, people thought it was fairies.”

Altair snorted at that, “so you get cursed and the whole village suddenly stops believing in fairies? That’s like getting burnt and refusing to believe in fire.”

Malik shrugged. “They believe in them, they just don’t tell stories about them anymore. Nobody knows who lived here, or when.” He plucked another handful of colorful bits of glass out of the dirt and dropped them in his sack. He was crouching in the loose dirt while Altair put his hand on the stone of the building and looked at it with wonder. “Do they have fairy stories where you’re from?”

“No,” was distracted. “Not like here.”

“What sort of stories did you have?” Malik brushed the dirt off a piece of glass that was mostly buried except for a small, pink corner that was visible.

“Ones about water spirits that drowned children and then ate them.” Which sounded more terrifying than fairies. “They used to tell us the spirits hid in the shadows of weeping willows.”

Altair didn’t specify who ‘they’ were as he followed the wall until it came to a broken column. The excavation of the buried glass was abandoned for the moment (it was probably far too big for their purposes), as Malik watched Altair crouch down to rub a finger over the carvings close to the base.

“Did they cut down the trees?”

“No,” Altair squinted at the carvings, as if trying to work out what they were meant to be. “The shade of the trees were supposed to lull them to sleep. But they’d wake up closer to sundown. Their favourite treat were misbehaving children.”

“How do they know?” Then again, Malik thought, would it really be so strange if they did?

Altair shrugged, “I think it’s because they’re out past curfew.”

“Is that why you didn’t learn to swim?” Because for all the times they’d talked about Altair’s past since meeting (what felt like an eternity ago but was really only a little more than two weeks), it was still mostly a mystery to him.

“It’s not uncommon for some people to never learn to swim where I come from.” He didn’t seem interested in say more on the subject. He dug a fingernail into the groove of one of the inscriptions and then dropped his hand away entirely. “I’ve made it a habit to avoid deep water.”

Malik considered pushing Altair for more information (or any information, really) about where or how he’d grown up and decided against it. Rather than bother, he resumed dusting away the top level of dirt to pick at the rubbed smooth bits of glass. “What do you think made this place?”

Altair shrugged. “Something old.” Then he came back over to work on picking glass out of the dirt near him. “We’re probably going to need a better plan for collecting glass in the future.”

“I’ll let you tell Kadar that,” Malik said. They laughed at that together (at the very idea of his brother protesting having to buy supplies) and then fell into a hushed quiet picking glass out of the dirt.

\--

They made it home before dinner time without only just enough time to scrub their dirty arms and hands clean in the sink and be shoved outside by his Mother. The crowd that had been healthy enough at breakfast and sparse at lunch had ballooned into a full-out mob at dinner. The council men had returned (minus the #4), and the girls, and the lingering faces that had never really made themselves memorable, but there were new ones in there. 

“What’d you do in town?” Altair whispered to him.

“I bought plants from a witch,” Malik whispered back. He’d left his gloves and his cowl inside by the sink. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, so there was more than enough skin on display to curse (or captivate) anyone that hadn’t already been taken in. It was funny, watching those new people that showed up to gawk at him, how they held their breath at the sight of him. Each of them (those new people) were waiting for the moment when they were overcome with love (or lust) for him. It had always been such a spectacle before. 

But those faces, there was no moment of urgency, no sudden rush forward to declare their love (or lust) for him. It looked almost like they were disappointed. 

Near the front of the crowd was councilman #2 looking forlornly down at his little basket of food. His fingers were pushing around the contents until he looked up at Malik and said, rather loudly, “I believe I’m more in love with my wife’s fresh pot pie than I am with you,” right at Malik. “So I’ll just go ahead and go on home.” He handed his basket (of second-rate food) to Pervis as he nodded at Malik and left.

In his wake, he left behind Pervis, who had taken the basket out of reflex and was now looking down at it (and pointedly not at anyone) as if it were to blame for all his troubles, as well as the rest of the council who seemed like they were at a loss for words (but that could just be the curse).

Malik hadn’t worked out how he felt about the whole affair before Altair snorted. When they all looked at him, he grinned.

“You’re less attractive than a pie.”

Which wasn’t even funny because given Altair’s repeated interest in whether or not people were having intercourse with trees or fowls, he should be worried that food items will be added to that list.

But Malik _did_ laugh, tipping his chin down to smother it in his hand before he looked up again. “To him.” He thought of Mother’s words when he turned to the assembled crowd of councilmen and said, “I suppose he remembered what was really important.”

\--

They were still laughing about it when they went to bed.

“You can’t say you like me more than pie.” Malik pointed out reasonably. “You haven’t had his wife’s pie. You can’t make an impartial judgement.”

Altair kissed him. “I can think of a few things you can do that a pie can’t.”

His smile was so perfectly _dirty_ that Malik couldn’t help but roll his eyes at him. “You’re stupid.” He said, but his hands slid over Altair’s shoulders to cup the back of his head. Malik’s fingers played with the hair at the nape as his voice dropped to a whisper. “Stop talking.”

In order to properly make that happen, he pulled Altair down and kissed him.


	15. Chapter 15

It was sunlight that woke Malik up. It cut through the rips in the curtain that fluttered in the breeze. He groaned into the lump of his pillow (several years past its prime) searching for some way to turn his head to get the dancing light out of his eyes. After a dozen (or two) entirely fruitless attempts, he was laying on his stomach, looking at the dusty interior of his room. Without the usual depth of shadows, there was no pretending he had simply stopped caring about the state of his bedroom. Everything was as organized as he’d left it as a freshly furious pre-teen, still working off his anger over his fate. The only smears over the layers of dust were the ones that were left by Altair’s busy-and-curious fingers, rifling through his belongings. 

Even the smell of the room had changed after he’d ripped the curtain, the freshness of the summer breeze making the stagnant stink of old sweat (and sex, and dust) hard to ignore with his face pressed against the bed like it was. 

He rolled so his arm was hanging off the edge of the bed, expecting to find Altair sleeping on the floor (and the size of his bed was another issue he needed to resolve with his bedroom) and found nothing but a rumpled up blanket instead. He dressed for a day at the house, a single layer of clothing with his cowl hanging off his shoulders and his gloves tucked into a pocket, and went out to find Mother in the kitchen humming as she finished up breakfast. 

“There’s already a few people in the yard,” she said to him.

Malik scrubbed his fingers through his hair, glancing out through the gaps in the curtains at the people making themselves at home on old blankets in the side yard. “Have you seen Altair?”

“I think he went out to the hen house,” Mother said. Like that was normal, like it was inconsequential. “Now, Mrs. Keller is out there, Malik. She stopped by yesterday to talk about becoming immune and how it would work for children. She said she was going to try it and if it wasn’t terrible she’d bring her children by.”

Like Sarah, the girl who had threatened to kill Altair (and if retellings of the events were accurate, had made an honest try at it). “Ok,” Malik said.

“Be reassuring,” Mother said. “I told her that Kadar was a baby when he went through it and he’s fine now. Mother’s worry about their children, Malik. So reassure her.” Then she waved a hand at him to send him on his way.

“I don’t know how to be reassuring.” Malik mumbled under his breath, his hand on the door like he was waiting for something. When he couldn’t justify stalling any longer he opened it and stepped outside.

The three remaining members of the council were there (surprisingly), and so were Sophie and her sisters. Mrs. Keller’s was an expected face (as was the way her eyes settled on him with a very pointed sort of focus), but he hadn’t expected to see Carol Herbert there.

“Mrs. Herbert,” Malik said, “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Her smile was strained at the edges. “Well, it’s off season, what with the festival being over and all, it’s been slow lately. Best to get it done now.” Then she added, like she’d been coached on it, “Frank is a bit hopeless when it comes to keeping the books by himself.”

Malik didn’t ask after Frank Herbert (it didn’t seem like the time when they were within earshot of so many people affected by the curse). He said, “I hope I didn’t cause too much trouble for you.”

“Oh,” Carol Herbert said, “it was nothing. He got over it.” Then she nodded, “he got over it.” She repeated like it was the most important thing to remember. “I’ll just find a place to sit down.”

She got some sour looks from Pervis as she passed (for managing to have a conversation with him that didn’t involve any insults, maybe).

Mrs. Keller lingered, opened her mouth to speak before she closed it again with a sigh. It wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming out of the mouth of a love-sick schoolgirl meeting her crush.

At least it seemed that Sarah Keller hadn’t gotten her homicidal tendencies from her mother. (Then again, Altair wasn’t even here so who was to say?)

_Be reassuring_ , Mother had said, and maybe she said it because she knew he wasn’t good at it.

Because the closest he could do was, “try to remember what’s important. That helps.”

“That’s just very difficult right now,” Mrs. Keller said. Every word was compulsive, clearly erupting from her throat though she didn’t want to share them. “I’ve heard so many different things about seeing you. I spoke to those Assad brothers and they told me that seeing you was like looking at the peeling paint on a barn. But Mary Dare told me that she was pretty certain her only chance at happiness was convincing you to love her.” Mrs. Keller laughed suddenly, it popped out of her mouth for just a second before she clamped her teeth shut. Everyone glanced over at them, and Mrs. Keller blushed up like a tomato, hands running down the fronts of her skirt. “In any case,” sounded more like her than anything she’d said before, “I’m here to see if I can get through this, so I can see if my children can. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if one of them had gotten a curse like yours. I’ve said it for a while now, I cannot imagine what your Mother must have gone through. That’s important.” And she nodded her head at him. 

He nodded back. “Just concentrate on that, on how much you love your children. That’s stronger than,” he motioned at his whole body, “this.”

She nodded and excused herself to go and sit by Carol Herbert. 

Malik was intercepted on his way to his spot by Sophie who appeared with another basket full of food and a sweet smile on her face. Her vicious (very similar looking) sisters were on either side of her shoulders holding their own baskets. “I couldn’t help but notice that _that boy_ isn’t here this morning.”

Funny, Malik couldn’t help but notice Altair wasn’t here either.

“It’s not just the curse talking when I say this, Malik Al-sayf. You could do better than that. He’s got the personality of a ugly badger. I would go so far as to say that even if you were into men, and George Hardison says that you are only into men, that any other man would serve you better.” Every single word was perfectly and precisely enunciated to carry in the wind, just on the off chance Altair was somewhere within earshot. 

“You’re much better than your brother,” added Suzy (or Sally).

“Well so is every other man,” Sally (or Suzy countered), and when Sophie glanced back at her, she added, “except Altair. Why, even a woman would be better for you than Altair.”

Malik motioned toward an open blanket, “you should eat before it gets cold. Thank you for the concern.” And they went despite the hesitation that made them hover in place. Once they’d gone, he sat on his own blanket with a single glance over his shoulder in the direction of the henhouse.

He almost expected Altair to show up just then, but he must have actually been doing something (though Malik couldn’t quite figure out what that would be at this point in a henhouse that didn’t yet house any hens) because he didn’t walk around this corner in time to hear any of the sisters’ remarks.

In fact, breakfast was well on its way to being done when Altair finally made his way out from the back. When he sat down, Malik put his plate down and brought Altair’s hands up. He sighed at the small cuts littered all over the his fingers and palms like thin red threads. “I’m pretty sure I bandaged these.”

“They were getting in the way.” Altair said with a shrug. At least it explained what he had been doing. “I was trying to figure out what kind of glass we wanted for the window.”

Malik hadn’t expected there’d be that much thought being put into it. Though he supposed it was the least Silas would accept. “Did you tell Kadar you wanted to buy the glass when he kidnapped you?” 

Most of the conversation around them had died down when Altair walked in. Some of them had started up again by this point but Malik knew they were being stared at. (He thought, Sophie and her sisters were probably glaring.)

“Yes. He said he’ll think of paying for the glass when we’ve actually filled all the commissions.”

Malik snorted. “You’re going to have to pry the money from him.”

“I was thinking I’d ask your Mother for help.” Altair looked around. Then paused. “That’s the mother of the girl who threatened to kill me.”

Malik nodded. “She wanted to try to become immune before she makes her children go through it.”

He was grinning at Altair, who looked back at him with a serious expression when he said, “When that happens I’ll just let your brother chain me to my work table.”

Malik started laughing because it was ridiculous. Altair kicked out at him. “You think it’s funny because no one is threatening to cut you into small pieces.” But the words were whispered, meant only for Malik’s ears.

It made only made Malik laugh harder.

\--

After breakfast, when almost all of the crowd had excused themselves to get on with the day, Sophie lingered just long enough to make sure Altair saw her. He was halfway-to-standing when he caught her stare. It was obvious the exact second he saw her (standing innocently by the gate, one hand on the fence and the other fisted around the handle of her hanging basket) because every muscle in his body suddenly went taut and the smooth-and-easy motion of standing stalled out to a purposeful display of aggression. He straightened his back and squared his shoulders, staring back at the girl like she was a real threat.

 

“You understand she doesn’t really have a penis, don’t you?” Malik asked him. 

“That’s an assumption you shouldn’t make lightly,” Altair said. While his voice made it sound airy and light, the look on his face was territorial and possessive. He didn’t look away or blink or make a single move to relax at all. 

“She’s under the effect of the curse.” Malik glanced over at her, and she didn’t seem to notice him or care. Her two sisters smiled at him, with flirty fingertips waving in the air where they must have thought their sister wouldn’t see. 

“I don’t think she is,” Altair whispered. 

It seemed like they were going to be stuck in the moment indefinitely, neither Sophie nor Altair anywhere near ready to concede the staring match. Rather than wait and see how it would end, Malik walked away.

He found Kadar out on the back porch, sorting the glass in the shade. He was frowning at the little wooden boxes that he’d scrounged up from in the house to hold all the pieces. The gloves that Altair was supposed to wear were on the ground. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Your boyfriend wants glass that I don’t want to pay for.” Then he finished sorting out bits of glass and leaned back in his seat.

“I don’t think Silas would accept a window made from recycled glass.” He could, in fact, imagine Silas’ exact expression he’d make and the aghast tone he’d take on at such a suggestion. The expression on Kadar’s face was much less comically but equally disapproving. “Think of it as an investment. We’ll save money on eggs.”

Kadar seemed to think that over. For a person who had been happily operating a business that made no profits he was being very pig-headed about money. “You’d have a better argument if we could sell the eggs for profit.” He said finally.

“We’re not going to have any eggs unless we have a window.”

“It’s not like Silas would know the difference.” Kadar protested. He gestured at the boxes with the glittering and glinting glass. “It’s all just glass. And I bet this stuff is probably of a better quality than anything we’d get in town. And even if they _weren’t_ ,” because Malik had opened his mouth to argue that they didn’t know anything about the structure in the forest, “they have a sort of mystic charm.”

Malik said, “that place could be haunted.”

“I think, if you’ve been going there for so long and haven’t gotten another curse then we’re probably safe. Not to mention the teenagers that go sometimes because of a dare.” It used to exclusively related to proving their courage by venturing to the structure or into troll territory. At some point Malik’s curse and his tendency to wander in the forest also factored into some of these dares, though Malik had never figured out what that proved except that they were stupid.

Instead of arguing that point (which was never much of a one anyway), Malik reasoned, “we’re going to run out of glass at some point. It’s only a matter of time before we need to buy the glass if we’re going to keep this up.”

Kadar twitched like the very idea of having to _pay_ for materials was physically painful for him. “I’d rather cross that bridge when we get there.”

Malik considered fighting it out with him; he calculated his entire plan (full of logic and forward thinking) and then dismissed it. Like Altair staring back at a girl Malik wasn’t even slightly interested in, Kadar would never concede money needed to be spent. Rather, he said, “so what happened with the seamstress girl?”

And Kadar slapped the table, “I _did not_ try to have sex with--Suzy or Sally or whichever one of them it was. And George Hardison--” Kadar wasted a pleasant twenty minutes shouting about his constant woes while Malik listened as intently as he could possibly fake.

\--

Mother found Malik in his room, with both fists full of the ripped curtain he was trying to finish pulling down. The sunlight made the whole room obnoxiously gray and exposed the thickness of the dust that had landed on the few books and small trinkets he’d collected in the years before he was cursed.

“I have a conundrum,” she said from his doorway.

Malik yanked on the curtain and ripped the final nail out of the wall. It landed on the floor with a healthy bounce and rolled over toward the bed. (He needed to remember that for later, so nobody ended up trying to sleep on it.) “A what?” he asked through the cloud of dust that was kicked up by his efforts. 

“Your brother does not want to spend money on new glass for the hen house window but your boyfriend insists that to make a quality product he needs a larger sheet of glass he can cut himself. I’ve been called in to mediate with the understanding that my decision is final.” She leaned in far enough to run her finger across a low shelf and frown at the dust that she’d collected.

“I need new curtains,” he said. And he motioned at the pile of laundry he’d made in the past week, shedding layers every day until he was down to a single one. “Do you think we could make them out of my shirts?”

“Of course we could,” Mother said. She waved that worry away without a second thought. “My conundrum is not whether or not we can spare the money. Despite what your brother thinks, we have more now than we have had in years. We can spare a few for glass.”

“So?” Malik asked. He rolled the old curtains up and dropped them in the pile with his shirts. “What is the conundrum?”

“I don’t mind siding against Kadar,” she said, “but I don’t see the point in it if there’s any doubt about how long Altair will be with us.” 

“I told him he’ll always be welcome here.” Malik said, mostly to his old curtains. In a quieter voice he asked, “did he...did anyone mention anything about leaving?” It hadn’t seemed like Altair wanted to leave. But this whole road towards anything even approaching a normal life seemed unending and it felt like they’d barely even started. And Altair didn’t even like--

“Malik.” It was Mother’s hands on his shoulder, the way it always was when she was pulling him back when his thoughts and worries started leading him away. She was smiling when he looked up. “I don’t think he’ll be leaving you anytime soon.” 

“Oh.” She seemed amused and exasperated. Malik was embarrassed about the former, but confused by the latter. “Then why are you worried?”

“I wasn’t worried, exactly.” Mother said and it reminded Malik of the times, before the curse, when she’d help him with his homework. _Think about it, Malik. All the clues are there. Just put them together._ When Malik only stared at her she sighed at him. “Maybe I was just wondering when you were going to make an honest man out of him.”

Malik said, “I think we should get a bigger bed. So we don’t have to take turns sleeping on the floor.” like he was having trouble understanding her words (like the whole idea of it belonged in a future so far removed from the present his mind would blank out from thinking about it).

Mother covered her mouth (like she was trying not to laugh) and shook her head at him like she couldn’t believe it.

\--

Lunch began with councilman #3 coming up to him and shaking his hand. “Well, it’s been an interesting two days but I’m looking at you right now and all I can think of is the backlog of paperwork that’s only been growing while I’ve been mooning after you. I think I actually have to rewrite some of it because I kept scribbling your name in the margins and drawings hearts around it.” But he seemed to be cheered by the prospect of more paperwork instead of daunted.

He patted Pervis on the shoulder on his way towards the exit. Pervis glared at him as he went. 

Malik didn’t think he looked very smug about anything, but Pervis glared at him nonetheless, “you don’t have to look so pleased about it,” before he sat next to other council member not yet immune. 

Sophie, Sally and Suzy hadn’t shown up to lunch (possibly because they were needed at home to help their Mother) but Mrs. Keller was sitting with Mrs. Herbert on a corner blanket, chatting about when to plant bulbs. 

“Can you sew?” Altair asked him. The question was the middle of a conversation that Malik hadn’t remembered starting (for that matter, he was still grappling with how his Mother wanted him to marry Altair when he’d barely known him two weeks). 

“What?” Malik asked.

Altair motioned back at the house with a slice of apple. “You tore down the curtains. Your Mother said you were making new ones. Do you know how to sew?”

He knew there was thread and a needle involved in sewing. “I know the basics.” After all, curtains were a rectangle of fabric that was folded over a few times on the ends, it couldn’t possibly take a genius to work it out. “Are you going to be able to get glass for the window?”

“Tomorrow,” Altair said. “You don’t know how to sew. How did your Mother raise two completely ignorant children? You can’t cook and you can’t sew.”

“Or steal,” Malik added. “Or get in pissing contests with girls.”

Altair snorted. “I didn’t even steal from those girls. I don’t know why she hates me.” He leaned back onto his elbows and looked at the thin crowd. “My jailor has left me unattended for the afternoon, I could help you make curtains.”

\--

Malik hadn’t actually expected them to be making curtains. At this point he wasn’t surprised Altair knew how to sew (he supposed there were skills one needed when surviving on their own), it was just that he hadn’t expected that they’d really be sewing in his dusty room.

“Ow.” Malik said after pricking himself for the fifth time with a needle. That he didn’t seem to be any good at this didn’t help make him feel better about the fact that they weren’t making out. He stopped his work for a moment and watched as Altair did stitch, after stitch along the bottom of the curtain (the hem. He was told it was called that), without once stabbing himself.

He was trying to decide between two conversation starters (either, ‘are we not having sex because there are no curtains?’ or ‘so Mother thinks I should marry you’) when Altair looked up from his threadwork.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Malik said, picking up his needle to try again. “I just thought we’d be--” He gave a shrug, “you know. Doing something else.”

Altair smirked at him. “Maybe later. We should finish these first.” He lifted the fabric in his hand a little. Malik nodded.

“Yeah.” He said before he winced again when he pricked himself. _Again_. “Damn it.”

They sat in stilted silence for a bit, Altair making short work out of hemming the bottom and sides of the new curtains while Malik tried to make his stitches even somewhat similar in size. He bunched up the fabric here and there along the way and considered giving up and starting all over again. (Or not at all. Since there was never anyone in his room but him, there didn’t seem to need a reason his curtains needed hemed at all.)

“Maybe we should move the bed,” Altair said. He was staring at the sewing disaster in Malik’s lap with a sympathetic sort of frown. “If we put it on this wall, we’ll still have the breeze but we won’t have the sunlight in our faces in the morning.” 

“What would we put under the window?” Malik asked.

Altair looked around the room and settled on the old low table that had been a desk once upon a time. “That,” he said. 

“And the shelves against the wall over there?”

Altair was nodding, and almost like he didn’t mean to say it, “I’ve never had a room, you know. Not one I got in say in decorating.” He smiled then and ducked forward to grab the curtain out of Malik’s hand and ripped the stitches he’d been trying and failing to get straight. “I can’t watch it anymore. Go get your gloves and try it again.”

“It was my first try,” Malik protested. 

“And it was bad. Go get your gloves, it’ll protect your fingers.” Altair was already getting to his feet, standing there in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips looking back and forth at the walls and the furniture like working out how to move each piece with the least amount of effort. Malik went out to grab his gloves off the kitchen table and found a note from his Mother saying she’d gone to town next to a duster and a pile of the old rags they used for cleaning. He grabbed the whole pile of it and brought it back to the room. 

“I’ll do this again, you can dust,” Malik said. He pulled a chair over by the window, rather than sit on the floor again and concentrated on lining up the stitches in neat little rows. 

\--

They’d finished the curtains by dinner. Under close scrutiny, it was clear that one was done by a novice, but Malik was rather proud at how straight the last line of stitches he made were. Hung up side by side on the window (and viewed from further away) there weren’t any immediately noticeable differences.

Sophie and her sisters were back with their basketful of sweet smelling food. Suzy and Sally smiled at him whenever they caught his eye, while Sophie mostly just glared at Altair (in between stabbing the small, ball-shaped pastry she’d brought with her with more violence than was comfortable for any man sitting near to her).

He and Altair were discussing whether they wanted a bigger rug in their room when councilman #5 came up to them. He was staring again, but it was less focused than before (less disturbing). He scratched at his chin briefly like he was trying to work out what he was trying to say.

He was a large man around the middle and when he heaved a sigh it was like watching mountains move. He said, “my nephew sent me a letter today. His family lives a town over and he was asking me about my job.” He was scratching again and Malik wondered if anyone had ever told him that he should break the habit. “I’ve tried explaining to him that running the town is boring business but no one’s been able to knock it out of his head that I’m not some kind of hero or something. Figured I’d best get this over with so I can write a decent reply back that won’t disappoint him too much.”

He squinted at them, looking between Malik and Altair. “You two have caused quite a fuss. I get that most of it was necessary, but I expect once it’s all finished things will quiet down again.” He did not add that that meant no more thievery, but it was implied well enough.

“I expect it will,” Altair agreed (as if he were not the person who had burgled everyone in the village. “Just as long as _everyone_ is willing to let it.” 

#5 narrowed his eyes at the statement, but it was an unreadable kind of expression like he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Whatever he had worked around to feeling on the matter, he just nodded his head in agreement and left. 

“Was there a reason to be antagonistic to him?” Malik asked.

Altair scoffed. “I think he understood my meaning. I’ve done my part, I’ve got a job and I haven’t seen anything but the work table and your brother and glass for days. I don’t know what kind of trouble he thinks I’m going to run into here.”

“Is it hard to be here?” Malik asked. “You’re used to going wherever you want, is it difficult to stay in one spot?”

“I did go most of the places I’ve been by choice,” Altair shrugged that, and all the things he still hadn’t shared about his past, off. “I don’t care about the rug but I still say we should make our bed frame.” Which cycled them back around to the ongoing debate that preceded the carpet. The one where Malik pointed out that building things with your bare hands was wonderful and all, but trying to make a sturdy piece of furniture with no knowledge of furniture making seemed stupid. Altair’s entire point of view was summed up by, “well, you didn’t know how to sew this morning, look at how far you’ve come already.”

\--

Dinner passed by without any outside incident. (And without any resolution regarding the building or purchasing of a new bed frame. Regardless of how Altair said, “raw materials are cheaper than a finished product” like he had a lot of experience actually purchasing anything.) Malik got up to do his bit at the end, wishing everyone a good evening as they left. 

Mrs. Herbert and Mrs. Keller were both polite while they stared at him a fraction too long. Malik thought it was best that he couldn’t reason out if their blushing was lust or love. 

Pervis all but snarled at him when Malik told him to have a good night, muttering something about how unlikeable Malik was as he trudged up the path toward the village. 

It came down to Sophie (busy glaring at Altair with utter contempt) and her sweet-faced sisters that took advantage of no competition to come over and flutter their eyelashes at him. He was in the middle of listening to them list off all the food they could make him,

“And you really should let us bring you something,” one was saying, “we can bring it by early so nobody thinks you’re showing any kind of favoritism.” Which wasn’t exactly the point. While he didn’t want to start fights among those still under the effects of the curse, he also didn’t want anyone coming out of it thinking he took advantage of them. 

“No, it’s alright,” he assured them. “Maybe if you still feel like it next week you can.” He motioned back at the kitchen window. “We’ve got plenty to eat.”

“It’s not about having or not having--” one of the sisters started but the other grabbed her by the elbow. Her white-tipped fingers were gripped so tightly it made the one speaking shriek in pain.

“Is that one of the Summer Lady’s flowers?” Suzy (maybe Sally) whispered. “I’ve never seen one really, it’s so beautiful.”

Malik had to turn around to see it, the tiny bud slowly unfurling as the sky started to dim (even just a little). He couldn’t exactly remember if he had set it there or if Mother had moved it to the sill. Either way, it was sitting proudly in its pilfered pot. “Yes,” he said. “Altair gave it to me.”

The white flower had a very distinct smell that was hard to pick out even from this distance (possibly because nature had designed it to attract insects not people), that Malik had come to dread over the years of cursed people shoving it in his face. Like other things in his life, his feelings about it weren’t the same as they had been.

Malik hadn’t meant to smile, but even with all the recent stress it was easy to remember the moment Altair had given the flower to him (that first bubbling of unreserved joy that he was _loved_ ).

One of the girls (maybe Suzy) sighed then yelped when her sister elbowed her. “But it’s just like in the stories.” She was looking at the flower with the smile of someone who was about to discuss something they could go on talking about forever. “In every version of the story, the flower is said to be a physical representation of the Summer Lady’s wish for her lover to be happy.”

With a roll of her eyes, Possibly Sally asked, “In which version was the Summer Lady a man?”

But it must have been an old tease, because Probably Suzy didn’t even skip a beat. “In some versions they say that her love did return to her but as a moth.” She said it like someone who could quote which versions that was and when they were popular and who penned them.

“It’s just a silly story.” Sophie scoffed. She looked pointedly at Altair when she added, “it’s not as if the Summer Lady was ever able to make her lover happy.”

“Nobody asked you,” Suzy (maybe) said. When she smiled at Malik then, there was no neediness in the look. The basket she’d been clutching in one hand slid down to her elbow when she reached out to take his hand. “The flower means something. I wish you the best.”

Sally was looking at her sister like she was insane but Sophie was all but growling something nasty about romantic-minded idiots as she walked over to push her sisters out through the gate. “I doubt you’ll see us tomorrow,” Sophie said over her shoulder. 

“Stop pushing me,” one of the sisters whined.

“Why do you have to be so bossy,” the other shouted. 

Altair came over to put his arm across Malik’s shoulders as they watched the girls walk away. “Do we believe in these magic flowers?” 

Malik shrugged. “Didn’t you believe in it when you went and dug it up in the middle of the night?” he tipped his head to look up at Altair. He was expecting just about any reaction (dismissal, scoffing, laughter) but the way Altair smiled. 

“I believe in romantic gestures,” Altair said. “I believe in very old things that leave their footprints on our world.” He motioned at Malik’s whole body. “There’s clearly powers beyond our understanding out there. But I don’t know that I believe it the way Sally does.”

“I thought that was Suzy.”

“Is there a way to tell them apart?” Altair asked. He laughed then, when Malik knocked his elbow against him. They needed to finish picking up the blankets and feed the pigs for the night, but Altair’s arm tightened around his shoulders and pulled him around to kiss him. “Tell me about those things you thought we would do instead of making curtains?”

“We need to feed the pigs.” Malik said, even as he threaded his fingers through Altair’s hair. “After that I’m going to strip you naked.” was probably too vulgar to say out in the open like this. Either Altair’s lack of shame was contagious or the amount of time he’d spent making out with Altair in front of the cursed crowd was having an effect on his standards because Malik couldn’t find it in himself to care.


	16. Chapter 16

The new day brought new faces to breakfast and new arguments about how to decorate their room.

Malik was willing to concede that the wallpaper needed to be replaced (it was a faded orange, decorated with a repeating pattern of green teapots and fruit baskets). “But I don’t want to paint the room green. Why would you want to paint it _green_? No.” Malik held up his hand to forestall any other arguments he might have. “We’re not painting it green and that’s final.”

The whole debate had begun early in the morning when they woke up and Altair had presented the most convincing arguments for why he wanted to paint the room green, until Malik went from laughing at him to being confused all the way to adamantly refusing to budge on the issue.

“Fine.” Altair said took Malik’s hand, “you can pick the colour. But I get to pick something too.”

Malik looked at him suspiciously like he was starting to guess what was going on. “You want to build the bed, don’t you?”

Altair wasn’t even ashamed when he answered, “yes.” Then, as if to sweeten the deal, he pulled Malik closer. “I really like green.”

“Liar.” Malik said, but he was ceding even if that didn’t stop him from frowning at him. 

Altair was far too pleased with himself as he shoved a whole apple slice into his mouth. His smile was far too proud to be tolerable. 

“How did you know I wouldn’t like green?” Malik asked. For that matter, Malik couldn’t swear he didn’t like green (except he was reasonably sure he didn’t want his whole room painted green). 

“I didn’t,” Altair explained around a mouthful of half-chewed apples. “I just know you’ll argue about anything if it’s phrased the right way.”

“What do you plan to do now that I know about your...plan?” Malik demanded. “I’m not just going to give you the bed now that I know you don’t care about green paint.” 

But Altair’s smile didn’t falter. “I bet if you came to town with me, you could find a book about building a bed, or you could ask that guy who helped you build the pigpen.” He ate another apple slice with his infuriating grin. 

“You’re not right. I only argue about important things.” But he wasn’t going to argue that he didn’t argue either. Instead, he turned his attention entirely away from Altair and almost immediately regretted it when he took note of how pleased turning his back to the man made a cluster of fresh faces. “I’ll go into town with you. That doesn’t mean I agree about the bed.”

\--

Right before they left, Mother had presented Altair with some new clothes. She said, ‘try these on. If they don’t fit right you can take them back into town with you to have them fixed.”

Then, once he was already dressed she hummed in approval and told him to just wear them.

“I think your Mother is up to something.” Altair said after they left the house.

“She might be.” And Malik reassured himself that his Mother wouldn’t have gotten a priest to meet them in town. That just wasn’t how she’d do things.

Still, he couldn’t shake the thought that something was going to happen and he was proven right when music started up when they arrived at the main square.

The village had a small band, a group of three men and two women who got together once in a while to play music together. They all had jobs so they only really played at village events. Malik and Altair both stopped in their tracks which gave the people around them a chance to throw confetti on them.

“Is there another festival?” Altair asked.

And Malik shook his head as the crowd around them cheered.

The crowd (and why was there a crowd) seemed to part along an obvious line. Malik slid his hand around Altair’s arm and curled his hand into the crook of his elbow. “I don’t think they want to hurt us,” he said quietly. It was meant for Altair’s ears, a little private reminder, but it did nothing at all to ease the tension in his body. Malik would have said more but Eustace (the last standing council member) appeared suddenly before them. 

He was a skinny guy with an aging gut that sagged low and made his clothes seem, at all times, as if they didn’t fit him properly. His hair was thinning on the top but it was thick in front of his ears (even if he kept his cheeks and chin precisely clean shaven). Both of his arms were spread wide open as he said (with absolute glee), “Well there he is, folks.”

There was a woman just behind him, carrying a satchel and a stack of little papers who nodded her head when Eustace turned sideways. (It occurred to Malik that there was probably a fairly large portion of the village that had never actually seen Altair.) 

“Don’t touch me,” Altair said so suddenly that Malik heard the words before he saw Eustace extend a hand like he was going to take Altair by the arm and pull him forward. Any intelligent human being might have backed away but Eustace just chuckled and the crowd (that seemed to get slightly larger by the second) chuckled along with him.

“Come on now, young man,” Eustace said. “I cannot very well present you with our inaugural citizen of the year award if you won’t get on the stage.” And when that failed to relax the stiffness of Altair’s stance, Eustace looked at him. “Malik, if you would. This is a very prestigious award that we,” he motioned at the bevy of ladies and up at the rest of the council that was sitting on chairs on a small stage, “have created in honor of the noble acts of your young--” Eustace stumbled a moment, “suitor.”

“Award?” Altair repeated, like he couldn’t believe it for a minute.

“There’s a medal,” the young woman behind Eustace piped in.

“Yes, yes,” Eustace agreed, “we’re working on finalizing a village holiday. It’s very tricky business, picking a day for a holiday.”

Altair said, “a holiday?” And then, more importantly, “ _why_?”

“Because you have done this town a great service in opening our eyes, and it’s not fair that _certain individuals_ do not recognize it.” Every word he said was perfectly cheerful but not at all _nice_. He added, “so we invited everyone to come witness this moment.”

Malik’s hand tightened on Altair’s arm as realization dawned on him. “You invited the Constable?”

Eustace chuckled again as the young woman said, “All public servants have been given a special seat in the front row.”

The tension in Altair’s body bleeded away until his stance was relaxed and full of arrogance, like a cat who hadn’t just gotten the cream but the canary and someone’s prized goldfish as well.

“Then let’s not keep them waiting.” 

Eustace nodded and gestured for them to follow him as he filled them in about the proceedings. “Normally we’d have rehearsed this, but given recent events it seemed like the best idea to get this all done as soon as possible. I will present you with the medal when we get to the stage. Then if you wish you could say a few words.”

“I’d love to.” Altair said and Malik squeezed his arm. When he looked over, Malik was frowning at him.

People were cheering as they passed and more confetti and now flower petals were being thrown in their direction. At the end of the crowd, the stage they pulled out on special events was set up, with flowers arranged all around it in bright sprays of colours. Malik remembered that Mabel Duvall refused to take custom orders for flower arrangements unless the client made them four days in advance.

The band was still playing, when Malik pulled away from Altair as they reached the end of the crowd.

“You go.”

Altair hesitated but he only long enough to duck his head and look at Malik’s face (hidden in the cowl as it was) before following after Eustace who had stepped up onto the stage and put his hands up in an effort to quiet the cheering of the crowd. 

Malik stayed at the edge of the crowd, out of arm’s-reach of anyone but still where he could see the front row (and Cherry’s furious red face) and the stage. Every member of the council was clapping when Altair stepped up onto the stage. He looked good there, dressed like a respectable member of the village. Mother had tailored the clothes to show off how lean and tall he was. 

“Quiet, quiet now,” Eustace was shouting. 

The crowd was a swell of faces--some of them familiar: 

Like Mary Dare and her future husband cheering as loudly as they could.  
And Frank Herbert happily whooping, while his wife glared sourly at Altair on stage.  
The Widows of the village had turned out and taken up a whole row of seats in front of the stage. Widow Greavy was whispering to the woman at her side.  
Jala standing with another teacher and an entire classroom full of children (those unlucky enough to need tutoring over the summer months).  
All fifteen of the morons that had attacked Altair were in the crowd, shouting in approval like they didn’t still have fading bruises and new scars from getting beaten by a single man.

But Malik was looking at Constable Cherry, staring with blunt, blind, watery hate up at the stage. Every syllable that Eustace uttered (something about ‘a great service to this village’) made him twitch with reddened rage. His arms were across his generous gut as he sat sandwiched between the other civic servants (a clutch of men that Malik had never had an occasion to develop a real opinion on). 

He missed the moment that Eustace hung the medal around Altair’s neck. But the whole crowd surged to their feet, all except Constable Cherry sitting there like a broiling stone. He only looked away when Altair started to speak.

“Thank you.” He started, “I’m very honoured to be here right now.” He lifted the award from his chest, as if putting it on display before letting it fall back onto his chest. “But there is one particular person I’d like to thank, personally. Without him I wouldn’t be standing here before you today, receiving this honour.” He nodded and Constable Cherry really should have been watching what was going on because then he’d have had some inkling of what was going to happen next before Altair called out, “Constable Cherry!”

The whole square was silent as Altair’s voice rung out. The Constable’s head snapped back.

Altair grinned and it could almost be called sincere to anyone who didn’t realize the history here.

“Thank you.” He said again, even as he jumped off the edge of the stage and crossed the space to the first row. The Constable was glaring, his entire face so red from embarrassed fury he looked ready to pop. “We’ve had our differences, but I am _here_ because you are the person you are. So,” He took the medal off his neck and held it out. “I’d like to give this to you.”

The audience held their collective breath, sitting on the edge of their seats as they waited to see what happened next. And Malik waited with them, his heart hammering against his ribs as he prepared for a disaster.

And Altair looked right into Constable Cherry’s face and thought,this is what you’ve always wanted. All the honour, all the cheering. But it’s not yours.

The Constable stood up abruptly, holding a finger up and then dropping it again. He didn’t speak, but snarled before he stormed away. 

Eustace laughed; two hands in fists pressed against his belly. Altair and him glanced at one another with vicious-pink-pride, all at once perfectly pleased with themselves. It should have been a victorious moment, watching the Constable storm off (humiliated and hurt) but it was more of the same. No amount of attack would ever force the man to give and poking him with sticks did nothing but make him more of a threat.

Malik didn’t feel _pity_ for him but an ugly unhappiness that couldn’t be assuaged by pettiness. 

“I guess he didn’t think he deserved it,” Eustace wheezed out between his laughing. Altair shrugged and hung the medal back around his neck. The whole thing was quick turning into an ugly pit, except for how Pervis stepped forward. His hand touched Altair’s back (without permission) and Altair jerked away with pure, brittle violence and only just barely stopped himself from hitting the Mayor. 

Altair didn’t relax but tolerate Pervis’ hand on his back. 

“There’s no need for picking on Constable Cherry, boys. We’re here to honor this,” Pervis looked at Altair with his nose wrinkled up. Every vile name he could think up was bubbling up into the quiet pause but he said, “young man,” like spitting blood through his teeth. “For his acts of heroism. Now I know many of you might be of the mind to say that our village wasn’t in need of any _heroism_ or any sort. You might be like I was, you might have thought we were all getting along very nicely. We’d just had a very successful, profitable festival.” This speech had all the terrible earmarks of being impromptu and unrehearsed. “It takes a brave man to stand up for what is right,” Pervis said. The revelation was raw and new. His arm tightened around Altair’s shoulders and he pulled him in an awkward hug. 

And any second, Altair was going to start a fight. The longer he stood there listening to Pervis meander to an actual point, the more uncomfortable he got. Malik was thinking about going to save him (and whether or not that would help, really) when Kadar invited himself up onto the stage in a half-run. 

“We really do want to thank everyone for their support today. This all means a lot to our family.” Kadar hadn’t been afforded many chances to speak in public like this, but it would be hard to know with the way he pitched his voice to reach the crowd. “As a token of our thanks, we’ll be giving out a discount to honour this special day! As you know, recently our business--”

Kadar didn’t need to give Malik a signal. They had known each other long enough that Malik knew when he was being given a distraction. When Pervis let go of Altair to go tell Kadar that this was _not_ a place for _advertisement_ , Malik made his way over to where Altair was. He didn’t grab him first (felt that Altair had maybe had enough surprises today), but said, “come on.” And only when Altair turn to him did Malik take his hand and pulled him away from the square and the commotion on the stage.

Eustace was saying something about refreshments when Malik managed to drag Altair into the outbuilding beside what Malik was almost certain must be the apothecary because of the overwhelming smell of medicinal herbs inside.

They were both breathing deeply as there was a burst of sound outside (maybe they were looking for the guest of honour, or maybe that was the normal hubbub that occurred as a crowd made a stampede towards the food. Malik hadn’t been to enough of these things to know either way).

“I can’t believe that just happened.” Malik said as he leaned back against the shelf that was lined with clay pots. ‘They weren’t kidding when they said Eustace really hated the Constable.”

“I’m surprised there aren’t more people who do.” The outbuilding was fairly spacious but most of that space was taken up by pots of varying sizes as well as stone grinders. He picked up the medal on his chest again and stared at it. His expression was like a blank slate and there was no telling what he actually thought about it.

Malik pushed away from the shelf to stand closer. His hands hovered over Altair’s, weighed the likelihood that Altair was at the limit of his ability to stand human contact before he touched him with just the tips of his fingers.

“So you’re...citizen of the year now?”

Altair shrugged and let the medal drop again. “Seems like it.” Then his arms were around Malik’s shoulders and pulling him close. “That deserves a reward, doesn’t it?”

Malik tried to be nonchalant as he shrugged, “I guess.” The words were a whisper as Malik leaned in closer, “what did you want?”

They were close enough that their lips were almost touching when Altair said, “I was thinking we could build a shelf into the headboard for the bed.”

It seemed impossible to find Altair’s sly smile (and voice and body and every single detail at that moment) as equally charming as it was infuriating. Malik thought he was as likely to slap the man for being stubborn as he was to kiss him. “Of course you were,” Malik said.

“Think of how convenient it would be to stop losing things under your bed.” And Altair winked at him. He might have said more but there was a loud banging on the door and Kadar just on the other side of it:

“You better be in there talking about your feelings, not taking off your clothes.” It sounded like he was trying to be quiet and shout at the same time. “There’s food and people that want to congratulate Altair on being a hero so you have to come out.”

“Hero,” Altair repeated. “That’s a new one.” He frowned at the door, “but we have to get the glass ordered,” because that was why they’d come to town to start with. 

“I’ll order your stupid glass,” Kadar said. 

Altair looked at him, “you ready?” It sounded like ‘stay with me’ and either way Malik just nodded his head and motioned to the door.

\--

It happened that Jason had elected to attend the medal ceremony and that he had gone out of his way to stop and congratulate Altair on his award. Since Altair had taken up a spot very close to the refreshments table, and since Altair was currently engaged telling a captivating story about rescuing a stolen horse (or something), Jason had ended up standing right next to Malik. Neither of them seem terribly interested in the story about the horse (that Altair might have rescued or stolen, or both). 

“What kind of wood would you recommend to build a bed frame?” Malik asked.

Jason, the carpenter’s long-time apprentice, shrugged. “That depends on what wood you like and what wood you can afford. I mean there are certainly some woods that are sturdier than others, but there are some that are easier to carve if you’re looking to make something more artistic,” he motioned at Altair, “isn’t he an artist?”

“Yeah,” Malik agreed. “But he works with glass.” (Because he had a whole sudden daydream of Altair discovering wood he could carve, of his grand plans for a fantastic and intricate design that would be beautiful and time consuming. Malik watched his daydream fall to pieces as Kadar inevitably threw a temper tantrum over the glass statues that weren’t being made and Malik ended up partially crippled from having to sleep on the God damn floor every other night.) “What wood is the hardest to carve?”

“Walnut and hickory are both too hard to carve easily, and they have attractive grains. Walnut is expensive though. Really,” Jason said with a shrug, “any wood that’s too soft or too hard will be hard to carve, but if you want furniture that’s sturdy and lasts you’ll want a hard wood. I can give you better recommendations if you can tell me what your budget is.”

“We haven’t figured it out yet.” In fact he had been fighting the whole idea of it until a moment ago.

“Well, when you have an idea you two can come and we’ll figure something out. Are you thinking of building it yourselves?”

Malik sighed. “I think we are.”

Jason just nodded his head without saying whether that was a good idea or not.

\--

By the time the festivities had wound down, it was too late to go back for lunch. With Kadar taking care of the glass they were left to wander the streets of the village. 

“We should paint the walls before we move or buy anything.” Came to Malik as a thought as they passed by the general store which sold the paints. “It’s still warm enough that we can keep the windows open when we paint.”

“We should.” Altair agreed but pulled Malik along, past the general store. “But paint is heavy. There are some other supplies we should get first.”

Malik frowned at him. “What do we need to buy?”

As far as Malik knew there were no stores (or almost no stores) in the direction that Altair was pulling him. Almost everything that they might need they could have gotten at any of the stores they passed, but Altair kept walking. He waited until they were beyond the shadow of the denser part of the village before he leaned in against him to say, “lube,” like it should have been obvious.

“What?” Malik demanded. “We can’t have--that whole bottle was--how much lube does it even--are you serious?” was what he settled on. It should have been obvious that they would eventually need to resupply but it had not actually occurred to him that it was something they would have to go purchase. The blush that was making his face hot seemed ridiculous (even to him) when he’d gone off and sworn to George Hardison two days ago about how he dreamed of dicks. 

“Yes,” Altair said. “I promised I wouldn’t steal anything else so we have to go up to her door and buy more.”

“Who?” Malik demanded.

“The girl that makes the bottles.”

And he yanked Altair to a stop. “Meg Violet makes lube?” 

Altair looked impatient with him, much the same way he had in the beginning when Malik wouldn’t wear his hood down even at the house. “I don’t know their names. The girl that makes the bottles is the one that makes the lube.” (Duh.) “Did you think I stole a bottle from one house and rifled through someone’s kitchen until I found lubricant?”

The truth was, at the exact moment Malik found out Altair had lube in his pocket, he didn’t precisely care where it had come from. 

“I don’t like not being able to see your face.”

Malik sighed. “I can’t believe Meg Violet makes lube.” 

Altair snorted. “Then stay out of her cellar.” There was no telling if he were being serious or not. He must have felt the whole matter was cleared up (that someone could just let slip that the most chaste, quiet, unassuming girl in the whole of the village apparently had a cellar full of shocking sexual secrets) because Altair started walking again. 

Malik followed after him. “How are we going to explain how we know she sells it?” For that matter, how did other people find out? Was it some process by which the information passed by word of mouth that Malik had never been a part of because he had lived on the fringe of everything and in celibacy? 

The closer they got to Meg Violet’s place (a cute little place with white walls and a blue roof that looked as sweet and innocent as any gingerbread house), the more flustered Malik felt.

They were walking up the steps to her door (also blue with little birds painted on), when Malik asked, “can’t we just buy oil from the general store?” While Malik wasn’t sure if the porn novels Kadar bought him were a reliable source of sex knowledge, but he didn’t see why regular cooking oil couldn’t be used in a pinch.

Altair turned to look at him when they stopped on the welcome mat. He didn’t like looking at Altair from this angle. The one that allowed him to keep his face in the shadow of the hood without him staring at the ground. It had been familiar to him, once, but now it was just strange (and irritating. He couldn’t imagine how he’d lived so long like this).

“If we keep buying extra oil, I’m sure Widow Greavy would know we’re not just using it for cooking.” He reached up to knock on the door. “This’ll be less embarrassing.”

Malik would have argued that there was no way to make this less embarrassing, but he wasn’t given a chance to when the door opened. Meg Violet stood in her doorway, still looking nothing like someone who peddles sex supplies as she smiled at them.

“And here I thought you didn’t know how to use the front door,” Meg Violet said with her hand gracefully clasping a dainty white napkin. She winked at Altair in a way that made his lips pull up in a dirty smile. She turned to look at Malik and smiled at his hood (the way people did when they couldn’t see his face), “if you’re here for your brother’s books I’m afraid they’re not finished yet. I’ve been low on inspiration.”

“Books?” Altair repeated, and he saved Malik the trouble of saying it. Kadar didn’t buy books because Kadar wasn’t interested in reading. The whole of their lives, the only things that might have been mistaken for books that Kadar had ever purchased was the pamphlet of poetry he gave to some girl in his graduating class and--

“Yes,” Meg Violet said. Her pretty face was as innocent as an angel, and there she stood dressed up like any perfectly (voluntarily) virginal girl would. “I call them sex novels but he says they’re love stories.” She rolled her eyes at that and motioned them in. “Of course with his reputation, I suppose it’s prudent to give the appearance of being bashful.” She paused a moment in the first room, narrowing her eyes at the medal dangling down the center of Altair’s chest. “Did they give you that for finally deflowering the village virgin?”

“Hey,” Malik said.

Meg Violet’s whole face was pink with amusement. “Oh, don’t worry. Most of the village didn’t care about your sex life but those of us who did--we just assume you’d end up with an ogre or something.”

“Do you know how big ogres are?” Malik demanded.

Altair knocked his elbow into Malik’s ribs, he leaned in to whisper, “yes, she does,” and offered no explanation as to how he knew that. “I’m a town hero,” Altair said. “Not just for deflowering the town virgin. I’d like to buy some lube.”

“And pay for the bottle you took last time you were here?”

“Sure,” Altair said.

Meg Violent considered that a moment and then looked at Malik, “I’ll give it to you for free--this time--if you take your hood off. I have no interest in being part of the crowd; but I do want to become immune to this curse.”

“It doesn’t happen instantly,” Malik said.

“So come back here, once a day until it does happen,” Meg said. “Or pay me twenty coins.”

Altair coughed (or could have laughed, it was hard to know) but Malik shouted, “that’s the same as four pigs! You can’t charge that much for--”

He was cut off by Meg raising her hand to silence him. She said, “he stole from me, I can charge him whatever I like. You’re new,” and she smiled at him like he was precious, “so you don’t have a clear understanding but I promise you that my products are the best you’ll find anywhere within a day’s travel.” She glanced at Altair who was investigating a tea set on a shelf like it was deeply interesting to him. He looked up only when the silence dragged on and nodded. 

“And if I agree to come here every day until you’re over the curse, are you still going to charge me twenty coins for a little bottle?” The very idea of it was offensive. 

“There is a lot of artistry put into the bottle. You can even use it to hold potions afterwards.” She said like that alone made it worth the same as four pigs. (But she was smiling like she was telling an inside joke). “It’ll be one coin and forty bits for one bottle.”

It still seemed a bit expensive for such a small thing. Malik didn’t actually have any experience in this, however, so he looked to Altair. “Is that reasonable?”

Meg had on display, an endless parade of ceramic pieces along the shelves that Altair had been investigating. But he had to turn away from a bird shaped bowl when he was directly addressed and nodded.

Malik sighed. “Fine. Can we take the bottle first?” It seemed like the better idea both because he didn’t want anyone to feel they’d been cheated and because it seemed unlikely that anyone who was affected by the curse would want to provide him with the means to have sex.

Meg nodded and went to a fetch them a bottle, this one was pink and yellow but still the same flat, round shape.

Once Malik had pocketed it, he reached up and touched the edge of his hood. He was still hesitant to throw his hood off, but it got easier every time he did it. He stood there with his face exposed and watched the way Meg’s gaze changed to something that was hyper focused as she took in the details of his face.

She was blushing but she said, “you don’t look like what I imagined.” Like she was disappointed. “Your brother is darker.”

“It probably has to do with not seeing the sun for nearly twenty years.” Malik’s hands relaxed on his hood at last before he let it go altogether.

Meg smiled at him, “you were a mystery. We’d wonder what you looked like under that hood. And well,” She shrugged, “reality doesn’t always live up to the fantasy.”

Altair had circled enough of the room that he ended up standing next to Meg as she looked Malik over. Without a crowd of similarly affected people around her, there was little to distract from how her eyes lingered here-and-there on his body. Altair was looking at him not-so-differently but with a far more pronounced and real fondness. “I like him,” he said to her. 

“Well,” Meg said (to Altair, not to him), “you get to fuck him and I don’t. So I don’t care about your opinion.” She waved her hand at them, “you can go,” and didn’t even stay long enough to make sure they left without stealing. 

Altair held the door open for him while Malik pulled his hood up and they were outside again before Malik said, “what’s in her basement?”

The noise Altair made was pure amusement, “I’m not telling you.” Then he immediately changed the subject to paint.

\--

They only just finished painting (and it had only taken so long because they’d argued about color for so long) before dinner. The paint on Malik’s shirt sleeves was still damp in spots while he sat out in the side yard, being gawked at (thinking fondly of when he used to eat dinner indoors). Altair was shirtless (and shameless), with streaks and dabs of paint on his bare arms.

“We’re not going to be able to sleep in that room tonight,” Malik said. He whispered it so nobody had any notions of offering them accommodations for the evening. “Not even with the window open.”

“We can sleep in the henhouse,” Altair said. He was grinning like an idiot when he said it, clearly ready to be refuted, and therefore seemed genuinely surprised when Malik said:

“We could. We’ll just take all the blankets out and make a bed out of them.” He wasn’t even sure why he said it. (But the hen house was big enough to sleep two full grown men comfortably, and brand new, and sturdy and rain-proof.) 

Altair narrowed his eyes at him, “well I don’t care,” didn’t seem to follow Malik’s statement, “but if Silas finds out we had sex in his granddaughter’s bedroom I’m telling him it was your idea.”

“Who said we’re having sex?” But Malik couldn’t be less convincing with the way he all but draped himself over Altair. “All you wanted for your reward was to build a shelf on the headboard.” 

Altair was more than aware of the way some of the people around them was glaring at their proximity. He leaned in closer and just smiled at him (and enjoyed the way Malik’s nose wrinkled and a faint blush spread its way across his face). 

He wanted to argue that just because they were going to be alone didn't mean they were going to have sex. But now that they’d talked about it, it occurred to Malik that if they were in the henhouse they were no longer in the same building as Mother and there would be more than just a bathroom between his and Kadar’s. The closest living thing to them tonight would be the piglets who wouldn’t care less what they got up to in the henhouse.

He pinched Altair in the side, because he looked so smug and it just couldn’t be borne. He was still frowning when Altair just laughed at him (and it was not attractive in the _least_ ).


	17. Chapter 17

The result of the awards ceremony was that a large group of new people showed up at breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day.

Apart from an increase in people (and Kadar suggesting they should probably start a queue system to control the numbers), nothing of note actually happened.

The day after that started with Pervis showing up halfway into breakfast when the most people were there.

He was standing there, dressed exactly how a mayor should be, with his clothes freshly pressed and his shoes shined to the point of being reflective. He walked straight towards them and cleared his throat.

Malik was half-dressed (or so it felt) wearing a shirt with short sleeves and no hood, sitting on the usual blanket in the center of a crowd (alone). His stomach was growling for the basket of goodies that Suzy and Sally had delivered to his Mother that morning (along with a note that said they wished Altair and him all the happiness and they would definitely make a wedding cake if the need arose). 

Silas had shown up at dawn to check in on the progress of the henhouse. He’d gotten a good look at the yard that was meant for the Marta’s plants and declared them incompetent, and taken Kadar and Altair outside to properly prepare the yard. Malik hadn’t been excluded (or spared) so much as reluctantly released for breakfast. 

When he looked up at Pervis, there was no particular part of him (not his empty stomach, not his sleep-deprived eyes) that was prepared to be belittled or mocked. “Yes?” he said.

Pervis--big and tall mayor--ran his hands down shirt front with a little twitter of annoyance at being left standing like a fool in the center of a bunch of people chewing their biscuits like cows chewing cud. Uncertainty made his cheeks go pink spotted but after a pause he nodded to himself and cleared his throat and sat down. When they were eye-to-eye, Pervis said, “I’ve had some time to think about things. Now there are people in the world that can recognize and realize things very quickly and there are those of us that are hindered by,” he shuffled over that next word, “ _pride_. I came here because I was tired of listening to Ervil yap at me about it. I didn’t come here to make amends with you, or to put right some injustice that had been done to you. I don’t think I ever cared about you a minute of the day that wasn’t filled up with people lining up at my door complaining about how you’d made things more difficult for them.” And he paused there, and everyone who was listening was glaring at their shoes with sudden intensity. “I don’t think I took even a minute to think about you at all. I don’t think it mattered to public policy, or for the good of the village that you be considered. So we allowed them to remove you from the school for the safety of the other children. We allowed them to make it a crime to see your face. We allowed them to post warnings about you on public buildings. We allowed them to make a criminal out of you for just existing.” 

“You didn’t allow,” Malik cut in. “You helped. _You_ signed the policies, you put them into action.”

“I did,” Pervis agreed. “And I never once cared what it cost you, or what it did to you, or how it would affect you at all.” He was nodding then, looking like his guts were being worked up into knots and Malik’s whole face was hot as fire, and his hands were bony fists against his thighs. “And we thought--we all thought, your Mother was a mad woman. That she was putting the welfare of a public hazard over the peace and safety of our whole village. We threatened her, and you, and we thought we were right.”

“Was there a point to this?”

It was hard not to notice the conspicuous silence around them. Or the shadows that fell in a slant across them, Pervis looked up (at Altair, or Silas, or Kadar, or all of them) and then back at Malik. “Ervil understood what we’d done wrong that day he came to nag us all into becoming immune. He said he couldn’t tolerate a minute of being mocked for something he had no control over; he said that we all should be ashamed of ourselves for how we treated you. If the measure of our village is in how we treated you, we are selfish, small-minded bullies. I didn’t understand that before. I didn’t want to.”

Malik was _not_ going to cry about one stupid old man stumbling through something like an apology.

“On behalf of the village, and from me, I wanted to come and say, we know that we were wrong. We know that we’ve been wrong in everything we’ve done to you. We thought we were doing what was best but we were only being selfish, we were only trying to make things easier for _ourselves_. And I-- _we_ are sorry.”

As far as apologies went, it was the best one he’d (ever) gotten. Maybe it even lived up to the ones he’d wanted (from everyone) when he was eight and still a couple of years away from giving in to the idea that his life was a natural consequence of his poor decision to spit on a fairy.

There wasn’t a sliver of pleasure in receiving this apology. Malik didn’t even know if he wanted to wipe the apology from existence or gloat. Which was just as well that he couldn’t answer it (or condemn it) because his throat felt tight and all the words he wanted to say were clogging up his chest. So instead of that, Malik stood up, his entire body wound up tight in an effort not to cry. 

He didn’t stop to excuse himself, all but ran from the crowd the way he’d never ran from anything (not the fairy, not even the men and women who had blamed him when he was a child). He didn’t stop when he made it to the back of the house, didn’t stop until he was standing beneath the old scarred tree. He circled around it until it was between himself and the house (and the rest of the world). He might have considered climbing it, but he wasn’t wearing his gloves and the novelty of rough textures had been lost when he’d built the pigpen.

So he sat down instead, with his back against the rough bark and his forehead pressed to his knees, and his arms holding them to his chest.

He was biting his lips, squeezing his eyes shut like that would hold the tears back. He held his knees closer when he thought he heard whisper-soft footsteps in the underbrush. It occurred to him, right before there was hand touching his shoulder, that there was only one person who walked that quietly.

Malik curled in on himself further. “Go away.” He muttered and hated how his voice cracked.

But Altair was always bad at listening (it was why he had been at the river that day despite how Malik had told him not to look) and now was no exception. His hands went from Malik’s shoulder to cradle his jaw. He did not lift Malik’s head but leaned in to press his lips to the top of his head.

Altair was out of his depth, out of practice with comforting people. He didn’t know how to offer platitudes and he was sure they wouldn’t be any help.

(What words could you offer to mourn the loss of nearly two decades of time?)

He said, “I love you.”

The sound Malik made, like a wounded animal, was not as heart-wrenching as the way he lifted his arms to wrap around Altair’s body, the way he all but fell against his chest as he sat forward.

Malik didn’t want to cry in front of Pervis, or Silas or even Kadar (who had never, to his knowledge, ever witness such a thing). But it wasn’t the first time he’d cried on Altair (who had seen him at his worst and called him dour and compared him to pebble and yet had fought for the chance to stay at his side), and so he felt no shame in the tears that he spilled now.

\--

Altair had not left willingly, but Malik had shoved him back toward Kadar (and Silas) when his brother’s voice interrupted nothing but the two of them sitting there shoulder-to-shoulder contemplating misery. Kadar had said, “so everyone’s gone and Silas was wondering if he should come back later to talk about the window.”

Altair was all set (certainly) to tell Silas he could leave, but Malik said, “just go. I’m going to go wash my face.” Since he’d sat out there and cried. 

“Sure?” was the least certain thing Altair had ever said.

Malik just nodded and it must have looked convincing enough to pass for confidence because Altair got up and followed Kadar back to the hen house. He took another minute with his back against the tree and his face sticky with sweat and tears before he picked himself up and went inside. The house was too quiet, the smell of the breakfast basket had gone soft and damp sitting on the table like it was, and curtains were still drawn across the windows blocking out most of the sun. 

Mother was standing by the sink in the kitchen with her fist around a towel and her face as red and puffy as he was sure his looked. The scuff of his shoes startled her into turning around to look at him; the shock of being caught made her cough something like a laugh (all nerves) and then she smiled with tears in her lashes. And his Mother, who had always been fair, and kind, and optimistic, said, “why did it take this long?”

He thought, he wouldn’t ever know all the things those men had said to her, or all the things she had done to protect him or fight for him. He was ignorant of closed-door cruelties, and the threats they said they made. She’d carried it around with her all these years, and all that regret-and-anger was tied up in the knot in her voice. 

“I don’t want to have to forgive them.”

Mother’s fist was strangling the towel in her hand, and she looked sideways for a second and then back at him, her jaw opened like it was shattering under the effort, “I don’t think you have to, not until you’re ready. But,” she added, “I think you should when you can. I think he meant it.”

Malik hugged her so she wouldn’t cry again. And she put her arms around him and squeezed him until he couldn’t breath, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” he said, (just between them). And she kissed his cheek again.

“We’re a mess,” she said when there was space between them. “Let’s wash our hands and faces and see if we can salvage breakfast?”

\--

As much as Malik wanted to just stay home all day, he had to go meet Meg Violet. He could, theoretically, wait until after lunch, but it felt important to go.

He washed his face with cold water until his eyes no longer looked swollen and red. He and Mother worked in the kitchen and talked about the piglets and how they were (adorable) doing so far.

Malik had intended to go into town alone after they were done. But then there was Altair, sitting casually in the tree in the front like it was his favourite place to be.

He walked to stand under the tree. “Is Silas gone?”

Altair nodded and swung his legs to the side so they were dangling in the air. “He just left.” He didn’t ask if Malik was going into town: his outfit already gave the answer away. Altair pushed off the tree to land in front of him. Malik hadn’t put his hood up yet so Altair didn’t have to make adjustments to look him in the face. “Well, let’s go.” Malik snorted at the way Altair just invited himself along.

But he said, “I’m fine.” Malik felt it was more convincing now than before but Altair wasn’t about to stay behind (and maybe Malik hadn’t wanted him to either), because he just took Malik’s hand.

“She had this vase.” Altair said. “I think it has a wyrm on it but it could have been a newt. I haven’t figured out which one it is.”

“Is it important?”

When Altair turned to smile at him, Malik’s heart skipped a beat (because there it was. His smile. The one that belonged to him). “Yes.”

\--

Malik had let go of Altair’s hand to put up his hood not long after they left the house (long before there was any chance of running into anyone).

Still, they walked into the village proper, hand in hand. Altair was regaling him with the story of how Silas wanted the rooster on the stained glass window to hold his legs a certain way to best show off that particular feature when Mary Dare rushed up to them. Malik had known her long enough that he could recognize the glint in her eyes. It meant that she’d found a juicy piece of gossip that she _absolutely_ must share.

“Hello.” She said, stopping in front of them with a smile that was more mean than Malik could ever remember it being. “Have you heard the news?”

“What news?” Was Malik as he glanced at Altair to find that they were probably equally in the dark about this.

“The council made a decision today. I heard it was unanimous, which doesn’t happen that often, you know? They really do fight about everything.” Malik nodded even though he didn’t know anything about the council except for an eclectic collection of useless and sometimes disturbing tidbits of information. “But they all agreed to dismiss Constable Cherry from office.”

Time seemed to freeze for Malik and he squeezed Altair’s hand tightly. He missed the part where Mary Dare was talking about how the council was still debating who to put into that position. (“Jenna thinks it’ll be Rick Kern, but I’d be willing to bet money it’s going to be Anna Hardison.”)

“Have they told him?” Altair’s voice was toneless, not casual, but Mary Dare didn’t seem to notice or care the danger in that careful modulation. 

Either that, or much like the way he misunderstood and underestimated Meg Violet, Mary Dare’s answering grin understood exactly what Altair’s tone meant. She tipped her head and narrowed her eyes, one finger tapping her chin like she was thinking. 

“What?” Altair asked.

“You scarred my future husband’s face so I’m going to make you wait a minute before I tell you,” Mary Dare said.

“Your future husband attacked me.” (But Mary Dare didn’t care and that was evident from how she looked at Altair with her lips pushed together.) “Fine, I’m sorry I scarred his face. Have they told Cherry yet?”

“I saw him go into the council building just before I saw you.” And she stepped to the side with a swish of her skirt. Malik stalled a second but Altair moved _instantly_ pulling them off their unobtrusive path through the village and straight into a casual knot of whispering spectators.

“Wait,” Malik said. His head felt like it was spinning (in circles) and Altair barely stopped when he heard that. He meant it half to Altair and half to Mary Dare and half to the village itself, suddenly boiling up with remorse for what it had done. 

It was going too _fast_ (and too slow, all at once). 

“Malik.” He wasn’t sure if it was Jala or one of the Widows or even Sarah Kellar (maybe Frank Herbert’s wife, even) but it was a woman’s voice with a Mother’s tone that was calling his name from somewhere to the side. 

Malik wanted to tell them all to _stop moving_ so _fast_ because he hadn’t caught his breath from two days ago when they gave Altair a medal (for deflowering the village virgin, and changing everything). 

Altair’s face was ducking down low enough that he could look at Malik without moving the hood. It was an expression that he hadn’t seen on his face before, something like restraint fighting against pure, naked hostility. (Or maybe he had seen it, just beyond the edge of his hood, that night they were throwing eggs at the Constable’s house. Or felt it, exactly how it looked on Altair’s face, when he was standing in front of Constable Cherry listening to his Mother argue on Altair’s behalf.) “I won’t if you say not to,” is what Altair said to him.

Wasn’t it funny, how infrequently anyone had ever asked his permission. Malik said, “make it worth it, you only get one shot.”

Altair’s smile was pure vengeance, he leaned forward to kiss him (quick and sharp) before he was pulling back to standing again. 

Then there were fingers at his elbow and Claudia was standing there with yard of fabric thrown over her shoulder. There were pins caught in her free hand, like she’d been pulled away very suddenly from her work. “I just heard,” she said (they were never friends, Claudia and him). She looked over at Altair as his fingers slid out of Malik’s hand. “And I saw you through the window. Is your brother with you?”

“No,” Malik said. “He’s--uh, he’s delivering finished commissions today. I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

“No,” Claudia said (but smiled when she did), “don’t tell him that, he might get the impression I find his persistence charming.” She settled on her feet the way a person did when they planned to stay for a minute. “I also heard that you’re making house calls to see Meg Violet. I think it’s nice of you to do that, since she’s so shy.” That wasn’t true at all. 

Malik nodded and tried very hard not to pay attention to the way there was a crowd gathering, or how the voices were getting nearly loud enough to be understood through the windows of the council office. “Are you serious about Kadar?” 

“I am as serious about Kadar as he is about me,” Claudia said. That didn’t clear anything up. “I think I might come by for dinner tonight if that’s alright with you. Last I heard I wasn’t allowed to bring anything to share, but do you think they’ll mind if I brought something for Kadar?”

“I don’t think anyone cares,” Malik said.

The door opened with a sudden slap of sound and (former) Constable Cherry was standing at the top of the short, fat steps with his round gut heaving and his face as red as his namesake. There was sweat in his hair and ugly, offended pride coiled up on his unpleasant face. “You!” he shouted at Malik (or Altair). He stomped down the steps, with his mouth slipping open to shout something to follow that up but the only sound he made was a high-pitched sort of whistle just before Altair hit him.

There was blood in the Con-- _Cherry’s_ mouth where Altair had punched him just as his mouth had been opened (and so very vulnerable to impact). Cherry stumbled back and fell over, clutching his face. He said (out of something like habit), “you’re assaulting an officer!” But the words were slurred like he was having trouble speaking.

The crowd didn’t cheer, exactly, but there was some snickering in the back (where they couldn’t be seen) and everyone was murmuring in a way that didn’t sound like disapproval.

Altair crouched down and Cherry tried to scramble away with a wide-eyed look of fear that was much easier for Malik to swallow than Pervis’ apology. The blood and spit that had transferred to Altair’s knuckles was wiped on Cherry’s shirt front.

“You’re not an officer anymore.” Altair said and Malik couldn’t see his expression, but it made Cherry’s face pale. “I heard you’re not much of _anything_ now.”

There some more noise from the crowd (Malik thought he heard someone say something like ‘he wasn’t ever much of anything’ but it was indistinct like it had been muttered under their breath).

Cherry was stumbled towards standing. He slurred a demand that sounded like, “isn’t anyone going to do something about this?”

Everyone was staring at the spectacle, but no one offered to help. Now, Malik wasn’t aware of them as a threat but as a wall around Cherry, closing in with a quiet disregard for Cherry’s situation (which almost seemed worse than outright jeering). The council did not appear at the doorway though they were causing enough of a scene that they must have heard.

Malik thought, _serves you right_. This moment had been his entire _life_ before Altair and turnabout was fair play.

“Altair.” Malik said, instead of addressing Cherry (whose jaw was already swelling). “We still need to meet Meg Violet. Let’s stop wasting our time with this. And Constable--ah, wait. It’s just Stone Cherry, now, isn’t it?” Malik’s face was hidden beneath his cowl, but there was clear mocking in his tone. “If you feel Altair has done anything wrong you can bring it up with the new Constable when the council appoints one.” He nodded, like that was the end of it (and in many ways it felt like the end of _something_ as he turned his back on Cherry).

\--

Altair was quiet, for a minute and then two, while they walked away. It was easy to concentrate on how quiet he was; easy to listen for his breathing (slow and measured) and not to hear the sound of the crowd dispersing behind them. It was easier than listening to his heartbeat--racing in his chest, just waiting for someone to stop them and pull them back.

Nobody stopped them. Or shouted after them. 

Malik didn’t stop waiting for it until Altair said, “it could have been a salamander.”

“What?” Malik asked. He didn’t stop, exactly, but slow down because Altair had slowed down just before they got to Meg Violet’s (innocent looking) door. The words seemed to come out of nowhere, definitely nowhere that Malik’s mind had been, and yet Altair was nodding to himself. 

“On the vase. It could have been a salamander.”

“I didn’t think you were coming along to see a real vase,” Malik said. He raised his hand to knock on the door but Altair’s fist folded over his to stop him. There was hardly anyone that would have been around to see, but Malik was still angry when Altair pushed his hood back. “You can’t just do that,” he said.

“I wanted to see your face,” Altair countered. “Not your face when you’re dealing with Meg Violet, or when your Mother is watching, or after you’ve had time to think yourself out of feeling.” 

“This is my face,” he said. “What did you need to see?”

Altair smiled, just a little smile. It was a vulnerable little thing, like the way he shrugged his shoulders and let his hand slip away from Malik’s. “In my experience,” sounded like another story that Altair might never fully share, “people fantasize about violence and disapprove of it in action. I wanted to see what you thought of me.”

Oh, well that was easy. “I love you.”

The words were unadorned, the feelings behind them uncomplicated, but the sincerity of them were enough to ease the shadows from Altair’s expression. Malik wondered (and may never know) what Altair saw, if he were staring down something or someone who had hurt him (the way Malik did whenever he was confronted with reminders of his past).

“Can I keep you?” Altair asked, bringing his hands up to touch Malik’s shoulders. 

Malik returned Altair’s smile with one of his own. “Yeah.” He meant to add that they should go before anyone (probably looking for sex supplies) came by and saw them, but he dragged Altair in and kissed him instead.

Then Altair was pulling his hood back up, his fingers brushing over his cheeks through the fabric as he let go. “Let’s go. I need to see that vase and you need to go see Meg Violet.”

“I think it’s more that she needs to see me.” Malik said as he adjusted his hood properly before he knocked on the door.

\--

The visit was rather uneventful (except for the way Meg Violet kept _smiling_ at them the whole time).

By the time they left for home, Altair was no closer to figuring out what the animal was on the vase (“Might be a siren.” He said).

Lunch was about as interesting (though without as much pottery involved). It was almost surreal given the day’s overwhelming start, to have it become something that felt so much like every other day.

After lunch, Malik had gone back inside to finish cleaning out his shelves, wondering if they’d need to get bigger ones or if Altair could work with whatever space Malik was able to make for him.

He was staring at the cover of a book titled, “Swords and Sheath” by one Emmett Emerson. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to keep it now that he knew that the actual author was Meg Violet. 

“Where’s Altair?” Kadar asked as he invited himself into Malik’s bedroom. He’d always mistaken an open door for an open invitation, and no amount of Malik shoving his brother out again and making him ask before entering had ever worked. Even now he was eyeing the stack of ‘love stories’ that Malik had set aside with a snort of amusement. “I guess you don’t need these now, huh?” He picked the top one up and flipped open the cover. 

“Why are you looking for Altair?” Malik asked. He pulled the book out of Kadar’s hands and set it back in the pile. 

“I wasn’t,” didn’t seem like the answer he expected. “He’s usually here.” And Kadar leaned against the table they’d moved under the window. The motion knocked the few things sitting on the table over, and he only barely managed to catch a candle before it hit the floor. “Sorry,” wasn’t very convincing, “so I heard he broke the now former Constable’s jaw.”

“He didn’t break his jaw,” Malik said. 

Kadar shrugged. “I also heard that you’ve been going to see Meg Violet because she’s so shy. I know for a fact,” he leaned forward and picked up another of the books like he needed proof, “that she’s not shy.”

“We have an arrangement,” and since Malik was busy (keeping busy) and Kadar was working up to saying something, he slapped another of the love stories (written by Meg Violet) down on top of the pile and said, “what?”

“Anna Hardison is the favorite to be the new Constable.”

“Kadar,” Malik said (calmly), “I was just in town, I know the gossip, what do you want?”

“Money, a store in town, to marry Claudia,” but Kadar wasn’t even grinning while he said it and Kadar was always grinning. It fell flat, those poor jokes, and he shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought I should come see you; I don’t know why. I mean--the apology and then the Constable, and all these things are happening. I keep thinking, none of this would ever have happened if I hadn’t thought the fairy was pretty.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Malik said. “I’ve never blamed you.”

Kadar shrugged. “So things are good for you, then? You’re...good?”

Malik nodded. “I’m good.”

“Altair is somewhere on the property, right? He isn’t out finishing what he started with Cherry? I mean, I’m not saying your boyfriend knows how to hide a body but if any of us would know how to hide a body, I feel like it would be him.” It was all nerves, and babbling, and sound. 

“I’m really okay, Kadar. Things are good.” 

But the moment stretched and Kadar finally stood up straight again and ran his palms down the front of his pants, “good. Because I was worried.” And he hid it so well.

Malik picked up the whole stack of the dirty sex books and handed them to his brother who stood there looking mildly offended. “I don’t need them anymore,” he said. “You can have them.” Then he pushed Kadar out the door like he had when they were children. He closed it too (the only thing that kept the pest out) and ignored Kadar banging his fist against the door.

“There’s no reason to be so rude,” before he left.

\--

It was late afternoon, not too long before the supper crowd would start to show, when Malik finally went to track Altair down. He was out in the yard, bent over a long table he’d made out of a few logs and some extra boards. There was blood down his forearms from the fresh cuts on his fingers as he worked to piece together the chicken. 

“Maybe we should see if we can get some enchanted gloves.” Malik said like he was sighing. “Something that will be thin enough to let you work the way you want but still prevent this,” He said, while gesturing at the state of Altair’s hands.

“I think most enchantments are supposed to be more glamorous than that.” Altair said as he squinted some green glass in his hand, turning it around and around before setting it down.

“Well, I don’t need them to be glamourous. I need them to be practical.” There were a few sculptures on the table that Malik hadn’t seen before. One was shaped like a mobile of colourful glass balanced delicately on a stand. Malik reached out to touch it, was fascinated when it began to spin gently, creating a moving spray of light on the table’s surface.

“So,” Altair said, leaning back from the glass chicken he’d been laying out. “Do you have any hobbies?”

The question sounded like one Altair had been considering for a while but it seemed so out of the blue for Malik that he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“I read.” Malik answered finally and…that was basically it. He used to make junk sculptures but even if he hadn’t given that up years ago there was no way he’d keep up with it now. “Why?”

“I love you.” Altair said and this time it wasn’t an attempt at comfort. Rather, it sounded like a preface to something else.

“But?” Malik prompted, leaving the glass sculpture to lose momentum and slow to a stop on its own.

“But I’m not sure I’ll survive all the sex we’re having.” He set his tools down and turned to face Malik. “I mean, I still think you’re attractive. I still want to have sex with you, but my dick is going to fall off at the rate we’re going.”

“Oh.” Malik said. Because what else was there to say?

“You should find a hobby.” Altair added. “I get that you haven’t had sex in twenty years but there’s a lot more you’ve missed out on besides sex. Now’s a pretty good time to start trying them all out.”

Malik hadn’t actually considered that. It wasn’t that Mother hadn’t encouraged him to have hobbies and interests (because she had), but he’d been disinterested at best about doing anything besides picking up a book for reading in all these years. Now, faced with the possibility of choosing to do anything he wanted was a little daunting.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You can make a list.” Altair said with a smile, “You can work your way through it.”

Malik nodded because it was reasonable. “But can we still have sex?” Seemed like it was important as well.

That earned him a laugh. “I don’t think I’d be able to not have sex with you. But maybe just once a day?”

“That doesn’t seem like a lot.” Altair scooted over to give Malik room to sit beside him at the table. Malik stared at him like he was trying to figure something out. “What if I want to fuck you? Does that count?”

It was hard to tell if Altair was amused or intrigued, Neither of them would have made the frown on Malik’s face lift. “Do you want to?”

“I’d like to try it.” Malik said with a shrug. “You seem to enjoy it.” Then it was, “I really don’t know what I’d want to do.”

“You can ask people for ideas.” Altair leaned over to kiss him. “Maybe start by learning to cook.”

“If I’m going to start by learning to cook, why not start by learning to clean and make your bed and darn your socks.” Malik meant for it to sound playful but it fell flat. 

“You know how to clean,” Altair said. “I don’t care if the bed is made and I will darn my own socks. Cooking is a basic survival skill that everyone needs to know. I’ll teach you how to pickpocket too if you’re interested.”

Malik snorted at that and looked down at Altair’s hands again. There was simply no way the cuts didn’t hurt, and no way that he was so comfortable with pain that he could ignore it with ease. Yet, there he was, being stupid and stubborn. (Not so unlike Malik himself.) “I should learn to cook,” he conceded. “I don’t want it to be the first thing I do.”

“Then what do you want to be the first thing you do?”

He shrugged, and almost as soon as he did, he said, “potions maybe.” His finger ran across one of the cuts on Altair’s long fingers and the man flinched. “Healing balms?” Then he motioned back toward the house, “we need to clean and bandage these before dinner.”

“I have to get this window done before we can get the chicks.”

“We still have three days until the plants will be here,” Malik said. He pulled at Altair’s sleeve. “Maybe I’ll ask the plant witch about an apprenticeship.” He didn’t look back but he felt like Altair was rolling his eyes.

\--

Eustace arrived ahead of the dinner crowd. He was outside, shaking Altair’s hand with a wide smile. It was easy to tell when Malik stepped out of the house because his expression seemed to become stiff and his handshake paused as his grip tightened (on Altair’s freshly bandaged hand).

“Good evening.” Eustace managed to stutter out as he let go of Altair’s hand. He was awkward, all pink cheeks and staring eyes (but he was more interested in commiserating with Altair about how Cherry was an asshole than hating Altair for being Malik’s boyfriend as the evening wore on so it wasn’t too bad).

Malik had forgotten about Claudia coming up until the point where she had arrived.

She came right up to them, her steps faltering for a step, or two before she continued her march towards his blanket. She stopped in front of him and stared Malik up and down. There was a distracted look in her eyes before she shook her head.

“You’re not even the cute one.” She said. “Your brother is shameless but he’s much cuter.”

Malik felt like he should be offended with the way people keep comparing his looks to his brothers. On some level, maybe he was. Just a little bit. But it was a relief to be insulted instead of having people throw themselves at his feet and that was more prominent.

So, instead, he said, “well, Kadar is over there,” He gestured at a small group in the corner that Kadar had been talking to up until he spotted Claudia there.

Her smile was cutting and Malik wondered if that was one of the things Kadar liked about her.

“Does he look worried?” She said without turning around.

“Yes.” Altair didn’t even glance over at Kadar. Not that he would have needed to; there weren’t many people that didn’t know Kadar had spent almost months of his life trying to win Claudia’s affections (with no results). 

“How worried,” Claudia asked. She looked at Altair but Malik was the one that looked over at his brother. Kadar had turned far enough around to watch Claudia and them that his back was to the conversation that had kept going without him. 

“Worried.”

Altair and Claudia looked very pleased with themselves. She was still smiling--wicked and sharp--when she turned around and strode right past his brother. Altair was grinning to himself at the display while Malik just shook his head. “Why are you shaking your head? She’s the perfect girl for him--the girl that he deserves.”

“It seems unnecessary.”

But Kadar had worked his way (directly) over to stand next to them. His palms were rubbing together as he tried not to stare at Claudia. “So, what happened? Don’t tell me.” But then he said, “what would be worse,” that was addressed to Altair (not him), “if she’s got the love curse or the lust one? I mean, don’t tell me.”

“I wouldn’t count on her being bothered by the curse too long,” Malik said. 

“She’s got terrible taste in men,” Altair added.

Kadar narrowed his eyes at them, and then glanced over at Claudia with a smile growing across his face. The nervous press of his hands settled, and he straightened up to his full height. “I’m going to go say hello to her,” he said (mostly to himself). 

Malik was watching him go (uncertain if he wanted to watch how it’d play out from here) when Altair took his hand into his. “What are you grinning about now?”

Altair leaned over so their shoulders were touching. “I think you’re better looking than your brother.”

That made Malik snort and nudge Altair with his shoulder like he was trying to shake him off. “Well, you’re biased.” (But he could only pretend he wasn’t pleased to hear Altair say it). He said, “I don’t care what they think about how I look. They weren’t the ones who _saw me_ when I needed it.”

The confession was whispered, something shared only between them. Altair’s fingers tightened around his. “Their loss.” He said.

They shared a smile and it was like they were in the forest, beholden to no one except each other. It was almost private in spite of the crowd around them. Malik’ turned his hand to lace their fingers together. “Thank you.” Was barely a sound,just enough of one to be heard.

Around them, some people in the crowd made vague sounds of discontent at their proximity but that wasn’t enough to deter Altair from leaning closer so their noses brushed. “Don’t mention it.”


	18. Epilogue

“Do you think he’ll find you another one?” Marta asked. She was on her knees, with her fingers pushed through the mulch that covered the garden and her fingertips sinking down to test the soil. They’d abandoned their lesson at the raised boxes in favor of enjoying the nice breeze that blew across the shady part of her garden. These plants were the most delicate--the ones that flowered best at night, that required constant care and supervision. Here and there she’d built little shadow boxes to hide them from the hot days of summer.

Malik shrugged, “probably. He might not since the Mayor decided to include it on the posters. ‘The magic of love overcomes a fairy’s curse.’” He shrugged again. 

Marta smiled as she pulled her fingers out of the dirt. “So he has to decide what’s more important to him, keeping up the tradition or being contrary.” The breeze blew her hair away from her face, she sighed as she got to her feet and came over to sit on the bench at his side. “You could grow those flowers. You’ve got enough to start a garden for yourself.”

“That would ruin the festival,” Malik said. 

“It would ruin your boyfriend’s record as the only man to find the flower every year. What would he do if he couldn’t show off for you?” She nudged at him with her elbow and smiled when he rolled his eyes. They lapsed into silence for a moment, her watching the plants and him picking at the dirt on his gloves. Marta resisted as long as she was able, but she finally said, “what?” like he’d beaten any expression of concern out of her. 

“There’s a lot of strangers in town for the festival,” he said, “every year there’s more.”

“Your curse and your boyfriend are big draws,” Marta agreed. Then she shoved him sideways off the bench. “Go. You’re useless to teach today. Come back when the festival is over, I cannot stand your moping.”

Malik was flat on his back in the dirt, with sun blinding him and a stick prodding him in between the ribs. He picked himself up, smacked the dirt off the backs of his arm and ruffled it up out of his hair. He was all set to tell her exactly how he felt about her pushing him around when she interrupted him,

“Be sure to pot your new plant correctly. The pots are important. They give the plant the space to grow.” She smiled at him like they were friends. And waited (again) for him to open his mouth, “and use the correct soil. There’s an element of truth to the story; those flowers have magic in them. They won’t take kindly to being mistreated.”

“Are you finished?” Malik demanded.

“Are you gone?” Marta returned.

\--

This close to the festival, venturing into town would mean dressing up in a way that’s courting heatstroke. He had gotten so used to walking around without all that extra weight bogging him down (as well as the feel of sunshine and summer breeze on his face) that it didn’t seem worth the effort.

And even though it had been a couple of years since the whole town became immune Malik felt uncomfortable with anything that might upset their acceptance of his curse

So he headed home instead. Kadar and Mother were more than enough to run their store which was now in the village proper instead of being at the fringe of it (though they weren’t able to find a spot in the heart of the village square. The owners of those spaces were loathe to part with them). 

It did not stop him from feeling vaguely guilty for abandoning them this day, when there were surely more customers than usual.

Altair hadn’t felt anything of the sort when he decided to stay home to build himself a workroom near the house (Kadar’s argument against Malik taking days off was always because if Malik wasn’t there Altair didn’t show up either.)

Altair had a workroom in the store, it was something Kadar had come up with that had glass on all sides instead of walls to allow people coming in to buy things to “See the Resident Artist At Work!” (as written on a plaque attached to it). But it wasn’t very big, meant for building the glass sculpture they sold and Altair was developing an interest towards larger and more ambitious (and more costly) projects.

They had agreed on a patch of ground near Mother’s house that would be suitable. It was supposed to be large enough to fit a work table, shelving, and any other supplies Altair might need.

Malik paused right at the fence of their property with a frown. There was the beginning of a building frame being built. It was far larger than a shed had any right to be.

Altair didn’t look at him right away, or at all, until Jason reached over to slap him on the shoulder and point toward where Malik had paused. Josiah was there too, standing to the side with a pencil behind his ear while he eyeballed the frame-in-progress and the beams they had laid to mark the foundation. Altair looked over at him and he smiled (when other men might have been sheepish to be caught in the midst of building far-more-than-described), “we’re probably not having children, right?”

“What?” 

“I thought you were both men,” Jason whispered at Altair. 

Altair scoffed at that as he straightened up to his full height. It was obvious from the pinkness of his shoulders that he’d been shirtless most of the morning. Sweat had soaked his hair (grown longer now than it had ever been before) to his forehead and he pushed it backward from his face. “We could probably build an addition if we change our minds, but the way I figured it, the odds are pretty slim we’re going to have any.”

“Why are you building a house?” Malik asked. It was far easier than addressing whether or not they wanted children (or where they would get them from at this point). 

Jason cleared his throat as he stood up, “uh, hey Josiah,” he said very loudly, “maybe we should go and get lunch.” But he didn’t want for agreement so much as grab his mentor by the arm and drag him toward the lane that led back to town. 

That left Altair with an unimpressed look on his face and a hammer hanging loosely from one of his hands. “I built a shelf,” he said. When that didn’t sound convincing (even to him), he sighed. “I built a shelf but there’s nowhere to put it. I made chairs last month and Kadar sold them because he said we didn’t need them. I like my shelf, there’s nowhere to put it and I don’t want your brother selling it.”

“That’s why you were making a workshop.” Malik didn’t move (because it seemed like if he did, he might be agreeing to building a house). “You were going to put the shelf in the workshop.”

“It’s a decorative shelf.”

“What?” Malik repeated.

“Your Mother doesn’t like my friends in her living room.”

Malik closed his eyes for a minute and then opened them again. “You’re building a house because you want somewhere to put your decorative shelf, and my Mother doesn’t want your friends to stay after dark and smoke those awful smelling pipes in her living room?”

“Yes,” Altair said. “Mostly the shelf.”

That was ludicrous. “Nobody builds a whole house to put a shelf in it,” Malik said. He did move then, stepping closer to the outline of the house. The frame was still lying flat on the ground, held together by a few cursory nails. There was a stack of papers being held in place by a rock, and even if he weren’t close enough to be completely sure, he thought they must have been the blueprints. “You could have told me you wanted your own house.”

“I didn’t realize that I did,” Altair said with his fingers worrying at the back of his neck. “Then I just…” he motioned at the house in progress. And he must have been embarrassed by it (at least a little) because he said, “what do you think?”

Malik looked at the house-to-be critically. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that when Altair had arrived he’d been a homeless, starving thief, that despite all his assertions otherwise the lifestyle hadn’t been one he chose based entirely on _wants_.

Malik sighed. He sighed because Altair was holding himself perfectly still as Malik came to a decision. (He sighed because he remembered how it had felt like to touch someone for the first time, to have something he’d convinced himself he didn’t even want.)

“I think we’re going to need more than a shelf.” He said finally. He kept up his frown even as Altair’s mouth slowly spread into a grin (but found that now that he’d said it, the whole idea of having their own house did have its appeals). “I need a larger pantry.”

Altair nodded and stepped closer, looping his arms around Malik’s waist. “How big do you need it?”

“I’m not sure.” Malik said, “big enough to fit all the food and also the potions and herbs. We’re not building a new bed.”

“I can make a better one.”

“No.” Malik said. The bed was an argument Malik didn’t intend to lose a second time. “The one we have is fine.” 

Altair nodded and said, “It is a fine bed.” Then added, “We could sell it.”

“Why? What difference does it make? Why can’t we just use the one we have?”

“Because the new one will be better.” And Malik imagined what that meant was that it was going to be carved because despite his best efforts that was something Altair had gotten into. Altair’s body had been close before but all of a sudden the distance between them was indecent as he whispered in Malik’s ear. “We could take a day off to break it in.”

“If you take any more days off Kadar is going to sell your shelf out of spite.”

Altair laughed. “He’d have to find it first.”

He was probably going to lose this argument, the same way he’d lost the last one (the same way Altair had eventually lost the argument about the gloves). But still, Malik held his ground. “You can’t bribe me with sex.”

“I was trying to _entice_ you with sex.” Altair’s smile was very pleased with itself, and Malik was gracious enough to accept being kissed. “What if I made all the rest of the furniture first?”

“How are you going to pay for all that wood?” Malik asked.

“I’ll make some I can sell.” And, predictably, “like the bed.”

Malik just rolled his eyes and shoved Altair back a step before he could get any ideas about being charming and flirtatious to get what he wanted. “So, tell me what the house is supposed to be laid out.” 

\--

Mother and Kadar came home not so long after Josiah and Jason (and Carlos, and Silas, and two of the Hansom boys, and Gerald, and…) had headed home to prepare themselves for the festival. The singing and the bonfire and the speeches were all set to begin about the time those that weren’t involved were eating supper. 

“Nice workshop,” Kadar said without pausing even a second to care that the building being constructed was most definitely too large to be a workshop. He jogged into the house without further comment while Mother raised her hand at his back, like calling him back to use good manners, and dropped it again. 

Mother was still wearing the apron she wore when she worked in the shop when she came to stand next to them. The smell of fresh sawdust was almost strong enough to overpower the sun-baked pig wallow. (Almost.) Rather than say anything outright, she tipped her face so she was looking at Altair.

He was crouching down to pluck the plans off the ground, looking not even slightly as sheepish as he had when Malik found him. Rather he just looked up at the naked boards rising like a skeleton from the ground, and smiled. 

“Meg Violet stopped by to say she’d give you five coins a flower this year, seeing how well she made out on the new _potions_ last year.” Mother dusted the dirt off Altair’s shoulder when he was standing. It was maternal, the way she tidied him up but there was nothing but sarcasm bleeding from the way she said ‘potions’. She knew, like he knew and Altair knew, that the potions were lube. 

“That’s generous,” he said. He smiled right at Malik’s face. He didn’t say (but projected, with every visible line of his body) ‘I’ll just pick enough to cover the cost of that new bed'. 

“I’ll give you two weeks of no mention of how you should marry my son if you make sure Kadar finds one,” Mother said. She was looking at the frame of the house when she said it, as casual and placid as ever. 

Altair snorted. “I can’t marry the man without a house.” But the subject of marriage had never been brought up with any seriousness and neither Malik nor his Mother had ever stipulated the need of a house. It was simply something Altair must have decided on his own.

Mother looked right at his face with her eyebrows lifted up and her hand swept out to motion at the house being built.

“Fine,” Altair said. “I’ll kick him down a hill.” And there was no telling if he were serious or not. 

“Thank you. Now come on, you need to wash up so we can make dinner.” 

\--

Altair and Kadar both left once the sun had set, presumably for the forest, while Malik helped Mother to wash the dishes.

“Was it busy today?” Malik asked (mostly to the dish he was drying).

“It was nothing we couldn’t handle.” Once he’d put the dish down Mother handed him another one. “There were some people who were disappointed you and Altair weren’t there.” There was mirth in her voice as she added, “it seems some of them think Altair is some sort of prince.”

To Malik’s eternal embarrassment, Meg Violet had begun to write books about them. Though she changed their names it was clear as day who it was about.

And something about the stories must have caught on because the story spread further. As it was retold, changes kept being made to it.

Altair being rewritten as royalty wasn’t even the strangest thing that had happened. “Did they also think the curse was broken by true love’s kiss?”

“I didn’t ask.” She handed him another dish to dry. “It will be quieter when the two of you move out.” She said it so wistfully that Malik hesitated a moment. Before he could voice his concerns she smiled at him and patted him on the arm, the dampness on her hands soaking into his sleeve. “I’m glad you’re making this step and it’s not as if you will be far. It’s just a bit lonely to see your children growing up. You won’t really understand until you’ve experienced it.”

Malik shrugged, “well, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Maybe or maybe not. The world is full of possibilities.”

“If we have children Altair’s probably going to build them a room and all their furniture. I’m not sure where he’s going to find the time if he’s already doing that.”

“And after?” Mother asked with a smile.

“I haven’t really thought about it. I don’t think Altair wants children.” He turned his head, looking in the direction of their new house and thought that he hadn’t known Altair wanted a house either.

“Think about it.” Was all Mother said right before she pulled him down to press a kiss to his forehead.

\--

Malik hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but he must have dozed off while reading in the living room because he was jostled rudely awake.

“Malik!” was his brother’s breathless attempt at shouting. He smelled like the darkest of the forest soil, damp and thick and slimy. The light was low with only a tiny lamp to attempt to illuminate anything (and when had the sun completely disappeared) but he was able to make out the streaks of filth all over his brother. “I found a flower--where--Altair, where’s the flower?”

Altair was farther away, far less covered in filth, modestly holding a flower while he looked at Kadar with the strangest combination of guilt and amusement. He lifted the little pot that he’d tucked the flower into to prove it existed.

“I can get married,” Kadar said triumphantly. He straightened up from where he’d been hunched over to shake Malik. The smell got a little easier to handle but the way he had his arm pressed tight across his chest (one might say, protectively) was impossible to ignore. “Well,” he said as he motioned with his free hand, “I can ask, anyway. I think she’ll say yes, don’t you think she’ll say yes?” he directed that at Altair.

“Yeah,” Altair agreed and he cleared his throat. “He broke his arm.” 

Malik dropped the book that was lying open in his lap on the table and sat forward in the chair so he could _try_ to understand what was happening right in front of him. “You broke your arm?” he repeated to his brother.

“I found a flower!” Kadar shouted back. “And yes, broke my arm.” 

“How?” Malik looked at Altair.

“It was at the bottom of this hill!” Kadar shouted.

“I brought him back,” offered no explanation as to how Kadar had come to break his arm. However, Altair had promised to kick his brother down a hill earlier that day. (And he would have, of course he would have, and of course Kadar wouldn’t have cared as long as he got a flower.) “I told him that you’d never talk to me again if we didn’t splint his arm before he went to propose to Claudia.” 

“It doesn’t even hurt.”

Mother came into the room with a lamp and a frown, wearing her long housecoat over her nightgown. Rather than say anything outright, she just looked directly at Altair with a frown. It conveyed everything that a whole evening’s worth of shouting couldn’t have. 

“I brought some straight sticks,” Altair offered. He pulled them out from where he’d been hiding them behind his back. 

“Mom,” Kadar said and grabbed her with his good hand. “I can ask Claudia to marry me!”

Mother smiled at him. “Well, let’s take care of your arm so you can get to it.” She set the lamp down on the table and motioned for the sticks from Altair. 

Altair handed her the sticks, as well as produced bandages for her to use (it seemed he had deduced that forgiveness would come easiest if he could show he had been prepared). As Mother fussed at Kadar, who couldn’t stop grinning about how he’s going to marry Claudia, Malik frowned at Altair.

“Did you actually kick him down a hill?”

Altair’s smile was as much an admission of guilt as, “I wasn’t trying to break his arm.” Then, “sorry.”

Malik rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

It was Kadar who said, “don’t be like that, Malik. Look!” He indicated the flower he had broken an arm for. “I found it! I can finally ask Claudia to marry me!” His face was flushed with joy. Then, because Malik was still frowning he said, “do you remember that time you fed me one of your potions and I ended up throwing up frogs?”

Malik flushed at the memory of that spectacular failure (and the reason he didn’t offer Kadar any sort of pain reliever). “I was trying to help.”

“Yeah.” Kadar nodded and felt that was all that needed to be said. “Don’t be angry at him. I’m not.”

Mother tied off the splint and the moment she was done Kadar was jumping up. He said to Altair, “I need my flower.” And when he had it cradled in his arm he was bolting for the door before anyone could remind him that he should change first. The door swung shut behind him.

Mother was shaking her head with an exasperated smile. She might have said, well at least they’re getting married, except for how she can’t for two weeks. She looked at Malik and said, “we didn’t tell him not to.”

Malik wanted to say that it should be common sense not to kick people down hills but Mother had already excused herself to go back to her room.

When she was gone, Altair stood there for a moment before offering his own flower to Malik. His smile was meant to be placating, like he was still expecting Malik to be angry.

He sighed again, louder than before. “Don’t kick him down a hill again.” He said but took the offered flower.

“I don’t think I’ll need to do it a second time.” He waited for Malik to set the plant by the window sill before he said, “can I still take you out tonight?”

Even without his family’s defense, it was difficult to stay mad at Altair, especially not when he was so softly desperate for him not to be angry. He turned around, one hand still touching the window sill as the other reached out for Altair, who closed the distance between them to take his hand.

“Let’s wait and see if Kadar comes home first. He’ll be upset if we’re not here to hear the news.”

\--

They passed the time waiting for Kadar by sitting on the front steps. The moon was full and bright, giving everything a pretty kind of silver sheen. Altair’s guilt faded slowly, as his posture relaxed by degrees, halfway between Malik thinking about the last assignment Marta had given him and whether or not Altair might want children, Altair said, “do you think the lube has a magical quality?”

“No.”

“You’re not even a little curious?”

“The only magical quality that adding the petals of the Summer Lady flowers to lube creates is the one that allows Meg Violet to charge double for the same thing. No, I’m not curious.” He leaned in against Altair though, since he wasn’t stiff and untouchable. “Did you find a lot?”

“Yes.” Altair put his arm around Malik. “I didn’t pick them. I got her five like last year. That’s all she needs.”

Malik hummed agreeably. They might have wandered into a second conversation (or a third), or Malik might have fallen asleep again, except that Kadar came home all but shouting in victory. He was red-in-the-face, carrying a little vial from the village physician in his good hand. “She said yes!” he shouted. “I’m going to get married!” He flopped himself backward onto the steps next to Malik.

“Congratulations,” Altair said for them.

Malik took the bottle and the rolled up slip of instructions that had been wrapped around it. “What did she say?” he asked half to the paper.

Kadar laughed, and sagged backward. There was love-and-humor and _pain_ in his voice when he said, “she said I was stupid, and that she wanted goats. So you,” he motioned in Altair’s direction, “need to build us a goat pen.” 

“Come on,” Malik said. “Have you already taken any of this?” And he dragged his brother inside and nagged at him to change his clothes and wash his face. He gave him the medicine and made sure he was safely in bed.

When it was done, he went back out front to find Altair standing out by the pig pen, looking around for a good space to put goats. “Did you get him in bed?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. “Ready?”

Altair nodded. “Let’s go.”

\--

During Altair’s first festival, they had spent the evening egging Former Constable Cherry’s house before running off into the forest together.

They didn’t make any attempt to repeat the egging (mostly because the house with the blue shutters and yellow door now belonged to one of the Hardison daughters who had married and moved out) but they made a tradition out of one thing they did. 

Every year, when most of the men and women scrambling around in the dark forest gave up, they would walk into the forest hand in hand. Malik hadn’t been too keen on it that first festival after everyone had been immune. While the whole thing had ended well enough, that night in the forest was just as full of unpleasant things.

But he had gone that year and the next and every year since. 

They did it again this year, walking hand in hand through the forest until Altair abruptly stopped. “What?” Was a hushed answer because it didn’t seem right to disturb the quiet of the forest.

“I think this was where we stopped before.”

“I don’t know how you can even tell.” Malik squinted into the darkness and thought this patch of forest didn’t look necessarily different from any other.

Altair laughed at him before he pulled him close. “We should sleep outside. I heard the trolls don’t come to this side of the river.”

“I don’t want to sleep in the forest.” Malik said as he leaned in towards Altair. “I don’t have extra clothes to use as blankets.”

“Maybe you should have planned better.” There was a grin pulling at the edges of Altair’s mouth.

Malik rolled his eyes before he just kissed him. “Maybe I’d rather sleep in our bed.”

“Don’t you believe in romance?” Altair asked him with a playful pinch to his side that made Malik jump.

“I believe in not getting twigs and dirt all over my clothes.” He said dryly. He reached up and touched Altair’s face and couldn’t help but smile when Altair leaned into the touch. “I believe in love. I believe in _our love_.” He said before he could think better of how embarrassing the words were. He was thankful for the night because after so many years hiding behind a cowl, Malik didn’t have much practice in stopping himself from blushing.

“I believe in it too.” Then Altair kissed him again, smiling into it like he could see the colour on his cheeks in the dim light (or maybe like he just _knew_ without having to see). When they parted, Altair’s hands were framing Malik’s face keeping him close. “When our new house is finished, will you marry me?”

And there’s really only one answer he could give to that. “Yes.”


End file.
